by Braun, Matt;
“Nobody asked you to like it. And it’s me they’ll blame, so don’t let your conscience bother you. Just stick to business and keep your lip buttoned.”
“I’d sooner not, Cap’n. It goes against the grain.”
Laird kept his gaze level, and cool. “Oscar, you’re a good captain. You’ve got a feel for the water, and you know how to work a crew.” He paused, jawline set in a scowl. “But either you follow orders or I’ll put you ashore and there you’ll stay. Now, that’s that, and if you care to argue the matter, we’ll step outside and I’ll gladly oblige you.”
Blalock jumped to his feet and moved between them. “C’mon, Cap’n! You know Oscar’d never refuse an order. Hell, he’s a riverman!” He turned back to Gilchrist, deadly earnest. “Tell him, Oscar. That’s the straight of it, isn’t it?”
Gilchrist studied the floor a moment, then shrugged and looked up. “Aye, Cap’n. Forget I said it. Whichever way you want it, that’s how it’ll be.”
Laird’s mood changed instantly. The scowl dissolved into a huge grin, and he hurried around the desk, arms outstretched. He herded the men toward the door, pounding them across the shoulders and rumpling their hair with a genuine display of affection.
“Boys, it’s a night to celebrate! And I know just the place. Good liquor and senoritas hot as chili peppers. Warm your innards and boil your blood. Guaranteed, by god! Guaranteed!”
Chapter 5
Summer lay across the land with fiery brilliance. At midday the earth shimmered under glaring shafts of light, and the sun at its zenith seemed fixed forever in a cloudless sky. Far in the distance waves of heat pulsed and vibrated, distilled small mirages from crystal air, and left the plains bathed in a glow of illusion.
Under the brassy haze, a buckboard and team clattered westward toward the headwaters of Santa Guerra Creek. Art Johnson held the reins, and beside him Angela sat perched beneath the shade of a parasol. At Trudy’s insistence, she had agreed to accompany him, but not at the risk of her complexion. The plains sun aged women before their time, turned their skin leathery and coarse, eventually left them brown as a Mexican. Unlike her daughter, who became more of a tomboy every day, Angela was quite determined to remain a lady. The parasol was her constant companion.
The buckboard was trailed by a group of vaqueros, all armed to the teeth. Over her mother’s protests, Trudy rode with them, mounted astride a roan gelding. She enjoyed their jabbering, carefree banter, and delighted in the fact that they accepted her as one of their own. Beside her were the sons of Ramon Morado, who acted as her companions on all such outings. Roberto was two years her senior, solemn and darkly handsome, with the grave manner of his father. The younger brother, Luis, was Trudy’s age, with laughing eyes and a clownish smile, something of a prankster. Since Trudy refused to behave like a girl, the boys were with her almost constantly; their father had assigned them to accompany her whenever she rode with the vaqueros. Trudy considered the Morado brothers her companeros—her closest friends on Santa Guerra—and they treated each other with the off-handed familiarity of equals.
Yet despite the easy camaraderie, there was always a tinge of deference in the manner of both the boys and the vaqueros. She was, after all, the daughter of El Patron, and their lives would be in serious jeopardy if she were allowed to fall into the hands of bandidos or marauding Indians. Under standing orders from Ramon Morado, the girl was never permitted outside the compound without an armed escort. Since La Madama was along today, the guard was heavier than normal, and Trudy was immensely pleased with herself.
She had arranged it all quite neatly, badgering her mother into joining Uncle Art on his errand, and the result was double the number of vaqueros who usually escorted her. Nearly twenty armed men! She felt like a generalissimo leading her own private army.
Angela simply felt bored. She rarely ventured outside the compound, and was of the firm opinion that anything pertaining to the ranch was best left in the hands of Ramon Morado. Certainly her husband knew nothing about cattle, and exhibited little interest aside from his monthly inspection of the account ledgers. His preoccupation was with riverboats and ... other things ... and this sudden urgency to acquire more land left her mildly puzzled. It was perhaps the only reason she had agreed to take part in today’s excursion. Her brother was a perfect dunce, and she invariably learned more from him than she did her husband.
She sighed, and patted her forehead with a hanky. “Honestly, this heat isn’t to be endured. Won’t we ever get there?”
“It’s not much farther. Couple of miles, maybe a little less.”
“You’re sure that’s all Henry said? Check the boundary mark ... nothing more?”
“That’s it. For some reason or another, it’s important to him that he own the headwaters of the creek.”
“I thought that’s why he retained that dreadful little man —Pryor, the lawyer—to look after such things.”
“Shoot! He’s had me doggin’ Pryor’s tracks for the last six months. You know Hank! If he can’t do it himself, then it has to be checked and double-checked.”
“No, I’m not sure I do know him. Not anymore. All this flurry of land buying, and that unconscionable raise in freight rates.” Her breast rose and fell, and she dabbed again with the hanky. “He’s not the man I married, Arty. The war changed him, made him harder.”
Johnson gave her a quizzical side-glance. “Aren’t you being a mite hard yourself? You know, running a steamboat line’s not like holdin’ a church supper. The whole idea is to make all the profit the traffic will bear.”
“Now you sound like Henry.” Angela was unable to resist the temptation to display virtue, particularly when it served her purpose. “I shudder to think what Father would have thought if he’d heard you make such an uncharitable statement.”
“Hold off a goldarn—” Johnson hesitated, unsure exactly how to defend himself. “You got no call to say that, Sis. I’ve never done a dishonest thing in my life. Not for Hank or anyone else.”
“Really?” Angela lifted an eyebrow in question. “Are you telling me you’re not a party to Henry’s scheme?”
“Scheme! What scheme?”
“Oh, don’t be a fool, Arty Johnson. Can’t you see that he has a design in all this ... a conspiracy of some sort?”
“You mean this land-buyin’ deal?”
“Yes, the land, that’s part of it. And then gaining control of the river. And trying to buy the railroad charter to connect Brownsville with the coast. My goodness, it seems to me any ninny would see that it’s all somehow connected.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” Johnson agreed somewhat reluctantly. “Except for one thing. Hank could’ve bribed the Yankees if he’d wanted to, but he didn’t. He bid fair and square on that railroad charter. Otherwise Joe Starling would’ve never beat him out.”
“Of course he did! That’s what I’m talking about. A railroad could destroy Henry’s steamboat business. But he submitted a ridiculous bid, and now that Starling has the charter, he doesn’t appear to be in the least concerned. So just stop and ask yourself the question, does that sound like the Henry Laird we know? Or does it sound like someone who’s hatched a grand scheme of some sort?”
“Yeah, I guess so. But what? What kind of scheme?”
“Heaven save us! I don’t know, Arty. That’s what I’m asking you.”
“Beat’s me. All Hank said was to check the boundary mark.”
Angela turned away in disgust At that moment she detested her brother—who was an even greater fool than she’d suspected—and she was bitterly frustrated by her husband’s secrecy. Not that his sharp business practices really bothered her. Nor for that matter his underhanded scheme, whatever it was! But she was positively livid that he’d excluded her from every aspect of his life in Brownsville. It was petty spite, she told herself, simply another way he’d found to punish and humiliate her. And all because s
he had a mind of her own, refused to consort with Yankees or return again to that dreary little house in town.
Suddenly her wrath turned inward. She despised herself and the shrew she’d become. For an instant she even hated her father, whose missionary zeal had uprooted them from their home and brought them to the border. Except for that, she might have remained in New Orleans forever, become a fine lady with broods of children and a prosperous, God-fearing husband. Instead, like some dizzy schoolgirl, she’d been swept off her feet by a laughing, wild-eyed Irishman. Sometimes she even wondered about that; was it love that caused her to marry or had she merely used it as a pretext to escape her father? The thought revolted her, dredged up emotions about her father she’d buried long ago, and she quickly cast it from her mind.
Her gaze wandered out across the plains. A brooding loneliness, like the hazed blue of the sky, hung over the land. The vaqueros called it El Desierto de los Muertos—the Desert of the Dead—for scores of Mexican families who originally attempted to settle the interior had been slaughtered by Co-manche war parties and savage gangs of bandidos who roamed the border. Even now, there were only a few haciendas in this vast wilderness, strongholds established by men like her husband. Yet for all its cruelty and danger, it was a land of raw, untamed beauty. A great sea of grass, broken by mottes of laurel and scattered bosques of mesquite, stretched endlessly to the horizon. Along the creek stately groves of live oak wavered in the breeze, and around marshy resacas there were occasional thickets of palmetto and chaparral. Not a hospitable land, for its rugged vistas were better suited to horses and cows than to men, but a land of immense tranquility, soothing in its stillness and sometimes ghostly silence.
Lately Angela had tried to convince herself that it was enough. The land and the ranch and the almost mystical adoration of Los Lerdenos. And of course Trudy. It was a good life, a peaceful life, without complication or worry or unwanted intrusion. A life to which she might devote herself and her energies, and someday, with the Lord’s help, cleanse herself of those distasteful memories. Forget what her life might have been, had her father not heard the call and gone forth in search of sinners. Set aside faded dreams and lost hopes, the way one presses dead flowers between the pages of a book. Dwell no longer in the shadow of bitterness, haunted by thoughts of a little boy, and the ache in her womb when she saw again his childlike innocence and laughing face.
The word “cloistered” sprang into her mind, and with it an overwhelming sense of serenity. Abruptly it occurred to her that the answer might very well be within her grasp. Perhaps the inner peace she sought would one day ...
Her reverie was broken. She became aware of her brother’s voice, and realized he was watching her with an odd expression. She tilted the parasol, turning sideways, and gave him a disarming smile.
“I’m sorry, Arty. The sun’s enough to paralyze the mind. Did you say something?”
“Well, yeah. You being so mad and all, I just got to thinking that maybe it- didn’t have nothin’ to do with business. Thought maybe it was personal. You know, between you and Hank. So I was tryin’ to explain that he doesn’t mean any harm. He’s just ornery and full of the dickens, and that’s his way of blowin’ off steam.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“C’mon, Sis.” Johnson squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “Don’t make me spell it out. It’s the whiskey and his ... you know ... the company he keeps.”
Angela’s smile seemed frozen. “Henry has always been free to choose his own company. I’ve never interfered, even though I do find those riverboat captains a despicable lot.”
“I’m not talkin’ about—” Johnson sounded baffled. “Look here, now, are you funnin’ me or what?”
“Arty, don’t raise your voice. I gave you a civil answer, and I assure you it wasn’t meant in jest.”
“Well, I sure as the devil wasn’t talkin’ about riverboat captains!”
“Then suppose we let it rest there, shall we? I know you mean well, but there’s nothing between Henry and myself that needs discussing.”
Johnson looked at her with some surprise. “I get the feelin’ you just told me to shut my mouth.”
“Gracious, this sun’s a caution, isn’t it? I hope it’s not much farther, Arty. I’m just dying for a drink of that cool spring water.”
Angela sat stock-still, staring straight ahead across the prairie. She appeared serene and collected, but in the depths of hidden feelings a new anxiety burned bright. On those infrequent occasions when Henry came to the ranch, they kept their conversation on a surface level. And these days they never touched, especially in bed. It was as though there was some silent agreement, mutually acceptable, to avoid anything that might cause distress. She had Trudy and the ranch, and he had his steamboat business. Very tidy, everything in its own little niche, a civilized arrangement between two civilized people. Or at least she had hoped, even believed, that they had finally come to terms with one another.
Now she knew better, understood what lay behind his thoughtful manner and that polite veneer of concern. Unwittingly, her brother had spoken out of turn, and now she knew the truth.
It wasn’t riverboats or riverboat captains. It was whores.
Chapter 6
Blalock reversed engines and slowly maneuvered the Mustang into shallow water. Deckhands waded ashore with hawsers, securing the boat to several stout trees, and a gangplank was lowered off the bow. Nearly thirty crewmen, all of them armed, stood bunched together on the forward deck. Laird approached them, a double-barrel shotgun cradled in his arm, and began issuing orders. He ticked off a dozen men, who each hoisted ten pound kegs of gunpowder onto their shoulders, then he walked forward and led the way down the gangplank.
On shore, Laird headed inland at a brisk pace. He set a winding course through the trees and undergrowth, but held generally to a north-by-northeast bearing. The crewmen strung out behind him single file, loaded down with an assortment of gear. There was no talking, none of the jesting and tomfoolery of a normal morning, and their faces were somber, almost subdued. Some three hundred yards inland, Laird broke clear of the scrub and halted, waiting for the men to gather round. Before them was a wide clearing, and stretching eastward toward the coast was a ribbon of steel. The rails were narrow gauge, newly laid, and glistened brightly as false dawn gave way to the glare of sunrise.
When the last of the stragglers stepped into the clearing, Laird turned back to the assembled group. His look was sober, and he studied them for several seconds, his gaze moving slowly from face to face. Not a man among them had been ordered to accompany him on today’s mission. But they were rivermen, and loved a good scrap, and were of the common opinion that Hank Laird had hung the moon. He possessed that rare and undefinable thing called the common touch, and had he led the way, most of them would have followed him across a bed of live coals. It was a loyalty he sometimes took for granted, yet this morning he was acutely aware of it, and never prouder that they counted him one of their own. After a while he grinned and patted the shotgun underneath his arm.
“Boys, this here’s your signal. So remember what I said. There’ll be no fireworks unless I start it. Just keep your eyes on me, and for the love of Christ, don’t get itchy. I’ll not have blood spilled unless there’s no other way. Any questions?”
There were no questions. “All right, then, let’s get to work.” Laird jerked his thumb at the railroad tracks. “Dig your holes deep and plant that powder the way I told you. And make sure you get it right the first time! We’ve got a half hour, maybe a little more, before our company arrives.”
The men broke into small work parties and walked toward the rails. Those with shovels began digging holes between alternate crossties, while others trimmed fuses for the powder kegs. From his position by the trees, Laird kept a lookout down the tracks, ready to signal the men the instant he saw smoke. But his eyes shifted constantly, mo
ving around the clearing as he reviewed his plan one last time.
The rails ended midway through the clearing, where track crews had halted work yesterday evening and returned to the base camp on the coast. A railbed, extending across the rest of the clearing, had been freshly graded and tamped in preparation for today’s track-laying. A stone cairn, partially hidden by brush, marked the eastern boundary of Laird’s property. It bisected the rails some fifty yards below end-of-track, and unquestionably placed the Gulf & Rio Grande Railroad on private land.
Laird studied the terrain a moment longer, then nodded and chuckled softly to himself. His scouts had accurately reported the situation, and he was satisfied that this morning’s welcoming party was perfectly legal. It had taken a year of waiting—and an endless summer while the rails inched toward his property—but he had every confidence that 1866 would prove the turning point in his grand design. He was congratulating himself on the virtue of patience when Sam Blalock crashed out of the brush and entered the clearing.
“We’re all squared away, Cap’n. Boat’s ready to shove off whenever you say.”
“Thank you, Sam. It’s them that’ll be doing the running, but it never hurts to have an escape hatch . . just in case.”
“Then you still figure they won’t fight?”
“Not unless Joe loses his head.” Laird smiled. “The man’s a great tub of lard, but he does have a temper.”
“You really think he’ll show?”
“Aye. Him and his partner both. They’ve no choice.”
“I suppose not.” Blalock rubbed his chin, watching the work crews. “Say it does get stickery, though. What happens then?”
Laird swept the clearing with his arm. “We’ll split the boys along both sides of the track. You with one bunch, me with the other. Of course it’s surprise we’re after, so make damn sure they stay hidden in the trees. That way, we’ll have Starling and his crowd caught between us.”
