Lords of the Land

by Braun, Matt;

  “Yeah, and then what? After he gets here, I mean.”

  “Then I’ll go down and have a little talk with Joe. Explain to him how I’ve got his balls in a nutcracker.”

  “Down there! Are you sayin’ out in the open, by the tracks?”

  “Naturally. Would you have me duck behind a tree and shout at him?”

  “Cap’n, I don’t like that idea. None a’tall! Least little thing goes wrong, and you wouldn’t stand a Chinaman’s chance. Not out there in the open.”

  “Calm yourself, Sam.” Laird tapped the shotgun. “With this trained on his belly, Joe won’t make any foolish moves. Take my word on it.”

  Blalock frowned, shook his head. “You’re awful sure of yourself, Cap’n. What if he loses his temper, like you said. Then what?”

  “Then you and the boys open up with your rifles, and I’ll treat you to a display of fancy footwork. It’s fast I am when I’m running for my life, jocko. Mortal fast.”

  “I hope so,” Blalock muttered. “You’re liable to need all the speed you’ve got before we’re done here.”

  “Aye, that I will. But not for the reasons you mean.” Laird gave him a cryptic smile. “Now, be a good fellow and hurry the boys along. I’ve an idea our visitors got an early start this morning.”

  Blalock began a question, then appeared to change his mind. He shrugged and turned away, mumbling something under his breath. Laird fished a cigar out of his jacket pocket, juggling the shotgun while he lit it, and went back to watching the skyline. He had a hunch it wouldn’t be long.

  Less than a quarter-hour later, a locomotive, pulling several flatcars, rolled into the clearing. Loaded aboard the flatcars were stacks of rails and crossties and a track gang of perhaps a hundred men, nearly half of them armed. A groaning squeal racketed across the clearing as the engineer throttled down and set the brakes. The train ground to a halt, belching steam and smoke, scarcely ten yards from the end-of-track.

  Hank Laird stood in its path, puffing on a cigar, shotgun cradled in his arms.

  The steam drifted away on a light breeze as Joe Starling stepped down from the engine. Behind him was his partner, Earl Roebuck, and the two men presented a sharp study in contrasts. Roebuck was lean and swarthy, with splayed cheekbones and muddy eyes and sleek, glistening hair. He wore rough work clothes, with mule-eared boots and a slouch hat, and strapped around his hip was a Colt Dragoon. His eyes remained fixed on Laird, but he whispered something out of the corner of his mouth to Starling as they walked forward. Starling merely nodded.

  Laird waited until they were near the end-of-track, then he lowered the shotgun and centered it on Starling. The two men halted, and he smiled. “Morning, Joe. See you got my message.”

  “Your man just said to meet you here. He didn’t say nothin’ about being greeted with a shotgun.”

  “A mere precaution, Joe. Nothing personal.”

  “C’mon, Laird! Save your malarkey and just spit it out. What the hell do you want?”

  “Why, that’s simple, Joe. I’ve come to warn you that you’re trespassing. I want you off my land.”

  “Your land!” Starling shook his head like a man who had walked into cobwebs. “Since when is it your land?”

  “Since I bought it and duly recorded it in Corpus Christi.” Laird paused and gave him a sad smile. “It’s a pity, Joe. But you should’ve checked the title: Now you’ve gone and laid your rails on private property.”

  “In a pig’s ass! I bought the charter off the Union army. The commanding general himself signed it! And you know goddamn well his orders supersede civil authority.”

  “Aye, that it does. But only where the charter is concerned. You see, the war’s over, Joe, and we’re back to the old rules. You must obtain right-of-way before you build a railroad. That’s the law.”

  “Like hell it is! That charter’s all I need.”

  “Nooo, there’s still the matter of right-of-way. Your Yankee friends really should’ve told you about that, Joe. Of course, everyone knows they’re sharp traders, so it’s to be expected.”

  Starling’s face went ocherous. “Get out of my way, Laird. I won’t be stopped ... not again.”

  “Careful now.” Laird cocked both hammers on the shotgun. “You’re already on my land, and I’ve the legal right to deal with trespassers.”

  Earl Roebuck stiffened, edging sideways, and Laird wagged the shotgun in his direction. “Easy with that pistol, Mr. Roebuck. Don’t make me stunt your growth.”

  “You’re not scaring anybody,” Roebuck blustered. “Take a look back at those flatcars. Lots of armed men there, Laird. Think you can stop all of ‘em with a lousy scatter-gun?”

  “It’s you that’d best take a look, Mr. Roebuck. Try the trees on either side of the tracks.”

  Starling and Roebuck swiveled in opposite directions, then back again. The tree line on both sides of the train bristled with rifle muzzles. They exchanged a baffled look, and Starling suddenly turned on Laird, his face pinched in an oxlike expression.

  “You’re just a sackful of surprises, aren’t you?”

  “Joe, those bullyboys of yours wouldn’t have changed things one way or another. You’re all wind and no whistle, and we both know it.”

  “Dirty sonovabitch!” Starling rasped. “You’ll live to regret it, Laird. I promise you that.”

  “Temper! Temper!” Laird laughed without humor. “Don’t lose your head, Joe. You’ve still got big problems.”

  “Oh yeah?” Starling eyed him warily. “And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  Laird puffed on the stub of his cigar, took it out of his mouth, and blew ashes off the coal. Without a word, he walked along the tracks, knelt beside the front of the engine, and touched his cigar to a tip of cord protruding from the earth. There was a wisp of smoke followed instantly by a hissing sound and the flare of sparks. Starling and Roebuck stood slack-jawed, watching with stunned disbelief as he moved from fuse to fuse, lighting them in rapid succession. After the third fuse had caught, he glanced back over his shoulder and grinned.

  “Joe, these are two-minute fuses. Now, if I was you, I’d get my fat ass on that engine and get it the hell out of here. Otherwise it’ll get blown to Kingdom Come.”

  Starling and Roebuck took off running as he lit the fourth fuse. The engineer was hanging out of the cab, urging them onward with a sort of pop-eyed terror, and the moment they scrambled aboard he hooked into reverse. The great driving wheels spun and screeched, clutching at the rails, and there was a jolting groan as the locomotive slammed into the flat-cars. The train slowly picked up speed, chuffing smoke like a maimed dragon, and went hurtling backward out of the clearing.

  Laird stepped across the tracks and quickly ran the line of fuses on the opposite side. Then he jumped clear and burst into a headlong sprint toward the wooded undergrowth. The crewmen were shouting and whistling, waving him on, and after what seemed an eternity, he flung himself to the ground behind the trunk of a live oak. Sam Blalock dove in beside him, mouth clamped tight, and gave him a dirty look as they ducked their heads. An instant later a dull whump sent tremors rippling through the earth.

  The railbed suddenly buckled, split apart, and erupted skyward with a volcanic roar of fire and smoke. Timbers and steel and chunks of sod climbed higher and higher, blotting out the sun, and slowly blossomed into a gigantic black rosebud. The force of the explosion hurled shards of wood and twisted rails across the clearing, showering debris far beyond the tree line. Then it was gone, the thunderous blast and fiery wind replaced by an eerie silence. Smoke hung over the clearing in a silty cloud, and where the tracks had ended only moments before, there was now a scorched crater almost the exact dimensions of a locomotive. It had the look and smell of a freshly ravaged battlefield.

  Laird and Blalock climbed to their feet, peering around the tree, and after a long while the riverboat
captain grunted with disgust. “You’re fast awright, Cap’n. I’ll give you that. But you’re awful goddamn lucky too.”

  “It’s me Irish blood, Sam. Tells every time.”

  Chapter 7

  Laird managed to dismount without losing his balance. He gave the horse an affectionate swat on the neck and stood there a moment, breathing deeply of the crisp autumn night. He was none too steady on his feet, bracing himself like a man walking into a strong wind. But his vision was clear, and though his lips tingled with a numb sensation, his mind functioned perfectly. He’d never felt better in his life.

  Since leaving Austin, his mood had grown more expansive, and every mile, his spirits had soared steadily higher. Three days on the road, with little sleep and even less food, had affected him none at all. His trail south was marked by a string of empty bottles, and he’d found whiskey to be a stimulating companion. He stank of horse sweat, bearded stubble covered his jaws, and he’d brought with him the grandest prize imaginable. The big casino.

  Listing slightly, he mounted the steps and crossed the porch with a determined stride. At the door he paused, squaring his shoulders, then threw it open and entered the parlor with an air of Caesar triumphant. Angela sat in a rocking chair beside the fireplace, crocheting a finely worked doily. The firelight and a table lamp cast her face in an amber glow, and her dark hair glinted with flecks of russet and gold. She brought the rocker to a halt, the crochet needle gone still, and looked around.

  “Good evening, Henry. I trust your trip went well.”

  Laird closed the door and took in the parlor with a baroque sweep of his arm. “Aye, well indeed! In fact, you may henceforth address me as King Henry the First.”

  “How nice,” Angela murmured. “Of course, Henry VIII might dispute the claim, mightn’t he? If he were alive, I mean.”

  “Never fear, lass. It’s not England I’m claiming, but a kingdom of my own. Laird’s Kingdom! The Rio Grande and every twist and turn along a hundred miles of border. By the Sweet Jesus, it’s all mine! To rule as I bloody well please.”

  “And your subjects, are they now governed by royal edict?”

  “In a manner of speaking, they are. Him that rules the tides of commerce rules the people. And sure as there’s a God in Heaven, that’s me!”

  Angela sniffed and looked away. “You’re drunk, Henry.”

  “Aye, drunk as a fiddler’s bitch!” Laird whirled across the parlor, dancing a wobbly jig, and lurched to a halt behind the rocker. He leaned forward, cupping her cheeks in his hands, and laughed in her ear. “Hate whiskey worse’n the devil hates holy water, don’t you?”

  “You know very well I do.”

  “But still you’ve got the urge, don’t you? Sitting there with your mouth tight as a peach pit, but all the time you’re thinking how you’d love to get me in bed. Do all them dirty, filthy things that sets you to clawing and screaming like a wildcat.” His hands slid down over her breasts and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Tell me it’s not so. I dare you! On the head of your dear, departed father, let me hear you say it’s all a pack of lies.”

  “You’re disgusting!” Angela wrenched away, pushing his hands aside. “You come home drunk and blasphemous, and if that’s not bad enough, then you have to paw me like one of those ... one of your whores!”

  “Now it’s whores, is it?” Laird moved around the rocker, chortling in mock wonder, and turned with his back to the fireplace. “Could it be that you’re jealous, lass? Not of me, you understand. Of them ... the whores! Tell the truth, now. Wouldn’t you trade your key to the Pearly Gates if you could let your hair down ... not roast yourself to perdition for all those wicked thoughts whirling round in your head?” He cocked one eyebrow, watching her intently. “You would, wouldn’t you? Even for a single night! Kiss the cross and tell me it’s not true.”

  There was no answer. The silence grew, stretched, broken only by the crackling of logs in the fireplace. Angela set the rocker in motion, eyes fastened on her hands and the furious blur of the crochet needle. It took her a long while to regain some measure of composure. When at last she spoke, her tone was one of distant civility. A tone she had cultivated over the past year, impersonal and reserved, brought into play with the deftness of a stiletto.

  “Henry, until tonight you’ve faithfully honored our agreement, and I deeply appreciate that. What you do in Brownsville is your own affair. The drinking—the other things—it’s no part of our marriage. I rarely even give it a thought, and if you hadn’t goaded me, I wouldn’t have spoken of ... those things.”

  The crochet needle stopped, and she looked up. “I apologize for snapping at you. And although you’re drunk, I hope you’ll have the decency to behave as you normally do in our home. Now, why don’t you sit down, and tell me about your trip to Austin? I never quite understood the purpose of your going, but from your manner it’s evident you met with success.”

  Laird appeared bemused. His gaze was inquisitive, oddly perplexed, as though she were something he’d bought on impulse and now, upon reflection, he couldn’t quite decide what he’d got for his money. She was absolutely the damnedest woman he’d ever known—a regular grab bag of contradictions—and he seriously wondered that he would ever fully understand what went on inside her head. Finally, with a great shrug of resignation, he flopped down in a leather wing chair, legs outstretched toward the fire.

  “I’m not sure I’d call the journey a success. It was more on the order of a conquest.”

  “Conquest? My goodness, Henry, that does sound imperial.”

  “Well, as I told you, it’s a kingdom I’ve returned with.”

  “Yes, but I thought you were just carrying on ... exaggerating.”

  “Drunken bragging? No, far from it.” He paused, staring into the flames, and his dampened spirits slowly rekindled. “I went to the capital with my saddlebags stuffed full of gold, and I returned with the charter for a railroad. The one and only charter that will ever be granted for a railroad to Brownsville.”

  “You’re not serious!”

  “Oh, I’m in earnest. It’s hardly a matter to jest about.”

  “But how on earth—well, you know—the Yankees and all their trash.”

  “How’d I pull it off?” Laird’s mouth curled in an ironic smile. “Simplest way possible. Austin’s thick with thieves, so I bribed every carpetbagger and scalawag I could lay my hands on.”

  With mounting enthusiasm, Laird went on to relate the highlights of his visit to what was now the Yankee capital of Texas. Angela merely listened, coldly silent, eyeing him with a mixture of dismay and surprise. She knew that Texas, and all the South, was at the mercy of the Yankees. She knew as well that her husband was utterly pragmatic concerning business, whether he was dealing with competitors or corrupt Northern officials. But the ranch was a refuge of sorts, isolated from the terrors of Reconstruction, and until now she had never fully appreciated the extent to which Texas had been subjugated. Nor had she gauged the true ruthlessness of Hank Laird.

  By the autumn of 1866, Union occupation forces were coordinating a program of reprisal and vengeance against a conquered land. The military possessed godlike powers, along with a taste for the spoils of war, and across the South the jackals gathered to share in the kill. The carpetbaggers, Northern-born loyalists, came by the thousands and, for the right price, were appointed to civil posts vacated at the despotic whim of military commanders. Next came the scalawags, Southerners without conscience or scruples, swearing allegiance to the Union in return for a license to rob their neighbors and kin. Many became governor, state senator, attorney general and, in league with the carpetbaggers and corrupt military commanders, set about performing civil and economic rape on a defeated land.

  With the law in the hands of the conquerors and their henchmen, former secessionists were faced with a stiff choice. Either they learned to suffer in silence, or else they came to t
erms with vandals who literally held the power of life and death. Which was precisely what Hank Laird had done. To control the Rio Grande, and insure his monopoly of the border trade, he needed an absolute license on all forms of transportation. It had cost him dearly, better than $50,000 in gold, but he now possessed a charter for all future railroad construction into the lower Rio Grande. The document effectively anointed him lord of commerce and trade for southern Texas, and in a very real sense, it had transformed the border into his own personal kingdom.

  “So there you have it,” Laird concluded. “The rascals would sell their mother if she’d fetch the right price, and once they sniffed gold, I practically dictated the terms of the charter word for word.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense,” Angela countered. “Last year you let Joe Starling outbid you on a charter, and then you purposely ruined him. Now you spend a fortune on a new charter ... but why?”

  “Lots of reasons. Starling’s deal was nothing more than a link between Brownsville and the coast. The charter I’ve got covers any overland construction to the lower Rio Grande. Besides, last year I’d not yet sewed up title to all the ranch-land. Now I own a strip that sits like a wedge between Brownsville and Corpus Christi. Any way you spell it, that means I’m the one who’s got the leverage. And I’ve got it all.”

  “I still don’t understand. I thought all along that you wanted to protect your steamboats. If Starling was a threat, then won’t your own charter amount to the same thing?”

  Laird slapped his knee and laughed. “Aye, but there’s a difference, lass! You see, Joe meant to build his railroad. I’ve no such intention.”

  “You went to all this trouble, and you’re not—”

  Angela’s face went pale, and suddenly she couldn’t keep her hands still. Her mouth narrowed and her eyes took on the dull gleam of an icon. She drew a deep, unsteady breath and her voice rose quickly.