by Braun, Matt;
Still, for all his boldness, trail-driving twenty thousand cows in a single season was no small undertaking. Few would have believed it possible, even for the owner of Ele Flecha, and the look on Trudy’s face reflected her own sense of wonder.
“C’mon, Pa.” She arched one eyebrow in question. “What’s the real reason? Why so many this year?”
“We’ve got the cows. And I figure the market’s ripe. So we’ll send ‘em up the trail to Wichita.”
“Wichita! What happened to Abilene?”
“Abilene’s dead. The rails moved south and now Wichita’s the new cowtown. It’s as simple as that.”
Trudy was thoughtful a moment, then gave him a disarming smile. “Pa, you know, I’ve never seen Kansas, and I was thinking—”
“No.”
“Wait a minute, I haven’t even asked yet!”
“The answer’s still no. A cowtown is no place for a girl.”
“Why not? I work in the roundup, don’t I? Even Ramon says I’m as good as some of the vaqueros.”
“One has nothing to do with the other. You’ll not go, and that’s final.”
“Caramba!”
“Watch your tongue. I’ve warned you before about cursing.”
“Well, you cuss. And you say lots worse things than I do.”
“Aye, but you’re a girl, and there’s the difference. It’s not proper.”
“And you’re an old stick-in-the-mud. I stopped being a girl a long time ago, even Mama admits that.”
Laird could scarcely dispute the point. His daughter was a blonde tawny cat of a girl, with bold, inquisitive eyes. Today, she was dressed in charro clothes—broad hat, short vest with tight pants, black boots and roweled spurs—and for a girl of eighteen, she looked very mature indeed. She had a sumptuous figure, which the charro outfit greatly accentuated, but while attractive, she hadn’t her mother’s orthodox beauty. Instead, she favored her father, with freckles and full lips and a short, impudent nose. Yet she was bright and personable, with an infectious laugh, and generously endowed with all the things that captivated men. Laird worried about that, even among his own vaqueros, and he took her swearing to be a bad sign.
“We’ll not argue the matter. I said no more cursing, and that’s the end of it.”
“Oh, you’re just grumpy today. Otherwise you wouldn’t even notice. And besides, that’s not important anyway. What we really have to talk about is me going along to Wichita.”
“Mother of God! Will you never quit? You’re like a bloody gnat.”
“Poco y poco, Papa.” She mimicked his dour look, then suddenly laughed. “All right, I’ll stop for now. But you think about it ... agreed?”
“Aye, but that’s all. No promises. You’ll not slip around me the way you do your mother.”
Trudy knew better. If anything, her wiles usually worked wonders on her father. But she left it there for the moment. She smiled, satisfied to let him think he’d had the last word. In truth, she had no intention of going to Wichita or anywhere else. She planned to spend the entire summer on Santa Guerra. It merely suited her purpose to allow her father to believe otherwise ... for a while longer.
Shortly before noon, some miles upstream, Laird reined to a halt beside a fenced pasture. The enclosure covered nearly a thousand acres, and was one of three such holding pens on the ranch. Unusually sturdy, the fence was constructed of mesquite posts, sunk four feet into the ground, with galvanized wire stretched taut and fastened to the posts by wrought-iron spikes. The wire alone, freighted in by wagon, had cost Laird a fortune, but once the project was begun, he’d spared no expense.
Always a visionary, Laird foresaw a need to upgrade the quality of his livestock. Longhorns were lean and hardy, perfectly suited to the arid climate, but produced almost as much bone and gristle as edible beef. Accordingly, Laird had imported ten Durham bulls and a hundred brood cows, then embarked upon a program of crossbreeding. The Durhams were built wide and hefty, packing nearly twice the beef of a longhorn, and he hoped to create a strain with the best traits of both breeds. Thus far, the project had been a dismal failure.
Durham cows, along with calves sired by longhorn bulls, grazed across the pastureland. But the cows were slowly losing weight, and their offspring, very close to yearlings now, fared only slightly better. In another pasture, farther upstream, the results were much the same with longhorn cows topped by Durham bulls. The crossbreed, by whatever combination, produced a chunkier animal, yet one that lacked the hardiness of native longhorns. It was obvious, after nearly two years of effort, that the strengths of both breeds had been diluted in the new strain.
Laird regularly visited the breeding pens each week, always hopeful for some sign of improvement. Today was no different from other days, however, and he stared at the herd for a long while in silence. Finally, he hawked and spat, eyes rimmed with disgust.
“Damn me, but they’re a sorry sight! Spoils my appetite every time I ride out here.”
Trudy chewed her lower lip in concentration. “You know, Pa, I’ve been thinking ... maybe it’s the Durhams. Maybe a cross with Hereford or Angus would turn the trick.”
“I’ve wrestled a bit with that myself. But then, they’re no stouter a breed than the Durham, so what’s to be gained?”
“Well, they sure couldn’t do any worse. Verdad?”
“Aye, but there’s no guarantee they’d do better. And I’ve no need to tell you, lass, as a business venture it’s been a bloody loss.”
Laird spotted a group of vaqueros riding along the far fence line, and the sight merely reinforced his statement. For the past two years, he’d had no choice but to station permanent guards, armed with Henry repeating rifles, to patrol the breeding pastures. With the death of Benito Juarez, and the rise to power of Profirio Diaz, Mexico had once again fallen into anarchy. Bands of outlaws crossed the border at will, raiding and plundering gringo haciendas with virtual impunity. The situation had been compounded by the election of a scalawag politician, E.J. Davis, as governor of Texas. Once in office, Davis formed the Texas State Police, to replace Union occupations troops and enforce his own edicts. But he left border settlements to fend for themselves, and outlying ranchers were hard pressed to stave off the attacks of Mexican bandidos. Laird had lost thousands of longhorns to the raiders, and except for his vaquero patrols, the Durham herd would have been rustled long ago. In round numbers, he calculated the breeding program had cost him in excess of $100,000. And still, he had nothing to show for either his money or his effort.
“There’s always next year, Pa.”
Trudy’s voice broke the train of his thought, and he glanced around. “How’s that?”
“Well, maybe if you cross a Durham-longhorn cow with a Durham bull ... or a longhorn bull—” She paused, suddenly baffled by the intermix. “Well, anyway, you see what I mean. One way or the other, maybe crossing the next generation will get what you want.”
“Perhaps, though I’ve little faith in it. Here lately, I’ve come to suspect it’s the land instead of the Durhams.”
“The land?”
“Aye, the weather and the graze. Too hot, too coarse, not what they’re accustomed to. Could be I’m simply playing a fool’s game all the way round ... wishful thinking.”
“What about the horses, though? That worked.”
“You’ve a point there, lass. As a matter of fact ... to hell with cows!”
Laird spun his horse around and signaled to their escort. “Vamonos, muchachos!” Trudy laughed, and roweled her own mount across the flanks. Trailed by the vaqueros, father and daughter took off upstream, running neck and neck, quirting their horses into a dead lope.
Several minutes later they slid to a halt before another pasture. On the opposite side of the fence a magnificent stallion charged toward them, suddenly pulled up short, and whinnied a shrill blast of greeting. He was a barr
el-chested animal, all sinew and muscle, standing fifteen hands high and well over a thousand pounds in weight. A blood bay, with black mane and tail, his hide glistened in the sun like dark blood on polished redwood. He held his ground, watching them, and pawed the earth as though he spurned it and longed to fly.
Laird’s mood always improved whenever he came to inspect the mares and Copperdust. He had imported the stallion from Kentucky, three years ago, and begun a selective breeding program. A manada of mustang brood mares was chosen from the ranch stock, picked for their conformation and speed. They had the spirit of their noble ancestors, the Barbs, and from generations of battling both the elements and predators, possessed an almost supernatural endurance. Yet, unlike Copperdust, the mares were essentially creatures of the wild, and no amount of breaking ever fully tamed a mustang. From this fusion, Laird hoped to breed the ultimate range horse, with all the qualities necessary for working cattle.
And the results had been spectacular.
By culling the mares, continually breeding up, nearly half of Copperdust’s offspring now met the test. They had stamina and catlike agility, intelligence and an even disposition, and a near sixth sense for the quirky ways of longhorns. Those who fell short of the requirements were nonetheless superb stock, and easily sold to the army for saddle mounts and pack animals. Not only had Laird developed a strain of horse suitable to his own needs, but in the process he had organized a highly profitable business. Before the year was out he figured to clear upwards of $50,000 from army contracts and the sale of young studs to other ranchers.
As Laird and Trudy watched, Copperdust came on at a prancing walk, moving with the pride of power and lordship. Always protective of his mares, who had retreated to the center of the pasture, he halted a few yards short of the fence. Then he stood, nostrils flared, testing the wind, like an ebony statue bronzed by the sun.
“God’s teeth!” Laird chuckled. “Look at the devil strut. Thinks he owns Heaven and Hell, and everything in between.”
Trudy nodded, her gaze abstracted, mouth set in a faint smile. The stallion fascinated her, and whenever he came this close, she always felt a curious sensation in her loins. His blood-red hide rippled, and she squirmed, pressing herself against the saddle horn. Oddly enough, every time the feeling came over her, Trudy experienced a fleeting image of her father. It was all very confusing, for the two of them, the stallion and her father, were somehow intertwined in her thoughts. On occasion, when she looked at her father, a sudden glimpse of Copperdust flashed through her mind. And the feeling never varied. It was warm and made her skin tingle, and brought a quick rush of dizziness that left a sweet aftertaste in her mouth. Almost as though she’d bitten into a moist peach.
“Something wrong, lass?”
“No, Pa.” Trudy blinked, licked her lips. “Nothing ... why?”
“Well, you’ve a damned queer look on your face, that’s why.”
“Oh, I was just thinking about Copperdust ... what you said.”
“And?”
“And you’re right. Even without the fence, it wouldn’t make any difference. He’d still own it all, wouldn’t he?”
“I’ve no doubt he would. You see, in there or out here, it’s all one kingdom. And fences mean nothing to a king.”
“Or a Laird.”
The words were spoken softly, but with a curious inflection, and immense tenderness. Trudy kept her eyes fixed on the stallion, unable to look at her father, and there was a prolonged silence. At last, convinced he’d read something into her words, Laird laughed and turned his gaze on Copperdust.
“Aye, it’s the God’s own truth. We’ll not be fenced, him or me ... except at our pleasure!”
At the supper table that evening, Trudy wolfed down her food, then excused herself and hurried off to the compound. One of her girlhood friends had recently become betrothed, and an informal baile was being held to honor the couple. Angela cautioned her to be home early, and Laird, who had little interest in such affairs, retired to the parlor for a cigar and whiskey.
After the servants had cleared the table, Angela joined him in the parlor, eyeing the decanter with distaste. Over the years, she had resigned herself to his drinking, for the alternative was incessant bickering which in the end accomplished nothing. But she endured with the quiet despair of a martyr being spiked to the cross; while never openly critical, she seemed forever in the act of biting her tongue. Tonight, she watched him drain his glass, waited in silence while he refilled it, and finally cleared her throat.
“Henry, I want to discuss something with you.”
Laird took a sip of whiskey, glanced at her over the rim of his glass. “From the look on your face, I’ve an idea I won’t like it.”
“Perhaps not, but we still need to talk.”
“All right, what’s on your mind?”
“Trudy.”
“What about her?”
Angela folded her hands in her lap and took a deep breath. “I’m worried about her, Henry. I have been for a long time, and tonight ... well, I suppose tonight just brought it to a head.”
“Are you talking about the dance?”
“I most certainly am. That and ... all the rest.”
“Jesus, must you forever talk in riddles? All the rest what?”
“Her friends, Henry! Her only friends.”
Angela had faded delicately with the years. She was weary of life, often depressed by the gray in her hair and the cobwebs of time lining her face. Yet, for all the futility and frustration of her own world, she still clung to a brighter dream for her daughter. In that, she had received scant encouragement from Trudy, and none at all from her husband, but her hope was undiminished. She believed that patience was a great abrasive and could wear away even the obstinacy of Henry Laird. She had waited, ever watchful, confident the right moment would present itself, and tonight she meant to force the issue.
“I’m concerned, Henry. Deeply concerned. I only pray we haven’t closed our eyes too long and allowed a very unhealthy situation to develop.”
“God’s blood! Would you get to the point?”
“Well, that is the point. Trudy simply doesn’t have the proper companions. No girls her own age, and certainly no young men.”
“Other than Mexicans, is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. And I find that very unhealthy, perhaps even dangerous.”
“Now, hold it right there! Are you trying to tell me she’s got her eye on someone ... one of the vaqueros?”
“No, I’m not. But she’s your daughter, Henry. She’s impetuous and headstrong and if the notion struck her ...”
“You think she might, huh?”
“To be perfectly honest about it, I’m not sure. But I do know that all the girls her age are married and having babies, and she might very well pick up some foolish ideas. Frankly, it’s not a risk I care to take.”
“And how do you propose to stop it?”
Angela squared her shoulders, looking him straight in the eye. “Henry, she’s nearly grown, and it’s long past time that we started thinking about her future. I want to send her to New Orleans, to a school for young ladies.”
“Oh, for the love of Christ!”
“Henry, listen to me, please.”
“I had a hunch that’s what you were up to!”
“Please don’t shout. I only want what’s best for Trudy.”
“Aye, and there’s no need to go into your little song and dance. I’ve heard it so often I know it by heart.”
“That’s not fair!” Angela’s tone was hotly defensive. “You make it sound like some silly game, and it isn’t. I’m only thinking of Trudy ... and if you weren’t so afraid of losing her, you wouldn’t act like such a fool.”
“Oh, it’s a fool, is it?” Laird puffed on his cigar, glowering at her. “Well now
, maybe that makes two of us. All this high-and-mighty talk about New Orleans, would you like to know what the girl wants?”
“Why, of course, Henry. I’m sure you’ve filled her head with nonsense, but go ahead, tell me anyway. What does she want?”
“She wants to go to Wichita—with me!—and it was her own idea.”
Angela paled. “Wichita?”
“Aye, and I’ve half a mind to take her. By the Sweet Jesus, she’d learn more there than she would in New Orleans.”
“You really would, wouldn’t you? You’d take her there and ruin her chances forever, just to spite me.”
“I’ll tell you one thing! You mention New Orleans once more and I’ll take her to Kansas so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
“I see.”
Angela fell silent, considering the threat. These days she never quite knew how to approach her husband. Their relationship had undergone a pronounced change in the last six years, and curiously enough, it was Hank Laird who had changed the most. Since the night of the hurricane, when she’d confronted him with the death of their son, his attitude toward her had become one of mixed emotions. At times he was considerate and gentle, almost courtly. On other occasions, especially those times she defied him regarding Trudy, he turned sullen and churlish. Slowly, despite his bluff air of assurance, she came to understand that he harbored some inner dread of losing Trudy. She traced it directly to the hurricane and the loss of his riverboats, and an intuitive belief, later confirmed, that he was saddled with guilt about their son. Quite by accident, she had discovered he was secretly visiting the chapel, generally late at night, with some regularity.
