Lords of the Land

by Braun, Matt;

  Today, under the brassy dome of the sky, a crew of vaqueros was working to ready the first herd for the trail. Laird and Ramon Morado sat their horses on a slight rise, watching the operation. Outriders were stationed at the cardinal points, containing the cows on the holding ground and hazing bunch quitters back into the fold. The rest of the crew was busy doctoring blowfly sores with the standard range remedy. Bawling cows were lassoed and thrown, then the sore was cleaned and the proud flesh cut away. A vaquero carrying a rag dauber and a wooden bucket quickly stepped in and coated the raw spot with axle grease. The cow was released, certain to heal before the trail drive ended, and the next patient was hauled forward to have its sores doped.

  The vaqueros wasted little effort, working together as a team, and Laird regarded the operation with an approving look. He was in an expansive mood today, one leg hooked over the saddle horn, puffing on a cigar, thoroughly pleased with himself and his world. He grinned, glancing at Ramon, and gestured with the cigar.

  “You’ve done a grand job, amigo. And the men too! There’s not a slacker in the bunch.”

  “Gracias, Patron. But we merely followed your orders. Nothing more.”

  “Well, it’s been a tough couple of months, and without everyone pulling together, we’d have never stuck to the schedule. I appreciate that. You tell ‘em I said so.”

  Ramon’s smile puckered the scar along his jawbone. “The vaqueros will take pride in your words, Patr6n. Great pride.”

  “Aye, but I’m thinking they deserve more than a pat on the back. You tell ‘em the day the last herd takes the trail, we’ll have ourselves one may grande fiesta. With presents for their women and all the ninos too.”

  Laird often indulged himself in feats of impulsive generosity, but this was something more than a token of appreciation. There were easily five hundred vaqueros on the Santa

  Guerra spread, and along with their families Los Lerdenos now numbered over two thousand people. It would indeed be a grand occasion, worthy of El Patron and one the people would not soon forget Ramon was about to express that very thought when the rumble of hoofbeats cut him short.

  Laird twisted around and saw Trudy galloping toward them, trailed by her usual escort. The vaqueros reined up some distance away, and a moment later, enveloping her father and Ramon in a cloud of dust, Trudy slid her mount to a halt in a flashy display of horsemanship.

  “Hola, Papa! Ramon! Que pasa?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary”—Laird squinted at her through the dust—”till you got here.”

  “Oooo.” Trudy’s voice was light and mocking. “Don’t scold me again, Papa. Please.”

  “Very funny. But that was a fool stunt, young lady, and no way to handle a horse. Mark my word, you’ll break your neck one of these days.”

  “Don’t be an old spoilsport. You know very well I can ride rings around you any day of the week.”

  “Bullfeathers! There’s not a word of truth to it.”

  “And besides, I need a little fun out of life. I mean, after all, you’re running off to Wichita and I’m stuck here on this dull old ranch. So what’s a girl to do?”

  “Here now, no more of that. The subject’s closed, and I’ll not have you browbeat me about it further.”

  “Why, Papa, no one’s browbeating you. That’s just your guilty conscience speaking.”

  “Mother of God! Would you listen to that? My own daughter, and she has the tongue of an adder.”

  “Well it’s true, Papa. And you know it very well too!”

  “I know nothing of the sort. You’ve had my reasons, and all your harping won’t change a thing. So let’s have an end to it, right now.”

  Trudy put on her best pout. “Well, I can see I’m not appreciated here, and that’s all right by me. I think I’ll just find myself some better company.”

  “Hold on a minute. You were supposed to inspect the second herd. Have you no word for me?”

  “Claro que si, Papa. Two days, three at the most, and they’ll be ready to go. And when you meet them in Wichita, don’t let it bother your conscience that I’m not there. Not much!”

  With that, Trudy heeled her mount sharply about and rode off toward the holding ground. Laird watched her go with an indulgent smile. Hardly a day passed without some barbed exchange about Wichita. But all in all she’d taken it rather well, and he was proud of her spunky manner. Still, once he’d gone, she might very well start feeling sorry for herself, and that bothered him. He turned to Ramon.

  “You can do me a favor, compadre.”

  “Si, Patron. Anything you wish.”

  “The girl takes after her father. She has a wild streak, and sometimes that’s a bad thing.”

  Ramon made a small nod of acknowledgment, and Laird went on. “When I leave for Kansas, she may allow her anger to overrule her common sense. She is a woman who still thinks with the mind of a girl, and she might harm herself in a way which she believes would hurt me.”

  The shadow of a question clouded Ramon’s eyes, then quickly moved on. The segundo had never lacked wisdom, but with age came a deeper insight that made him a truly wise man. For all the Patron’s affection and generosity toward Los Lerdenos, he knew that at bottom it was the affection of a lord for those who served faithfully and without question. Henry Laird ruled the people of Santa Guerra through example, and through a bond of loyalty unbroken into the third generation. Yet beneath it all, there was a quiet force that would never brook disobedience. Nor would it allow familiarity. Watching him now, Ramon sensed that they were discussing a very delicate matter. The Patron would kill any vaquero who touched his daughter, and he was trying to convey the message without actually stating it.

  “I understand, Patron. It will be as you wish.”

  “Bueno. After I am gone, I will sleep easy knowing that you stand in my place.”

  “Hecho! I will watch over her as though she were of my own flesh.”

  “Gracias, amigo. I am in your debt.”

  “De nada, Patron. You honor me.”

  Laird nodded and there was a moment of deliberation. He gazed off into space, staring past the holding ground, and seemed to fall asleep with his eyes open. Presently he blinked, took a couple of quick puffs on his cigar, and swung back to Ramon.

  “There is another matter we must anticipate. Our friends from below the river, Los Renegados.”

  “Sangre de Cristo!” Ramon’s nut-brown features colored with rage. “They grow bolder each day, Patron. Always they strike where we least expect it.”

  “Too much land, that’s the problem. And too many cows.”

  “Si, Patron. And too few men. Our vaqueros try, but they cannot be everywhere at once. The thieves know this, and they raid our herds with little fear of being caught.”

  “Once I’m gone, they’ll grow bolder still.”

  “I do not understand, Patron.”

  “Think on it. What would you do if you were Cordoba?”

  “Hijo de puta!” Ramon exploded. “Son of a whore!”

  “He’s that and worse. But he’s also sly as a coyote. He’ll know the exact day I leave for Kansas, and in his mind, my absence will appear to weaken our defenses. I have no doubt he will encourage more raids than ever, and we must be prepared to counter that threat.”

  “You are right, of course, Patron. But how?”

  “A good question, and one I ask myself a great deal these days.”

  Laird fell silent, thoughtful. It was a burden that weighed heavily, for he planned to spend most of the summer in Wichita, and he knew the people of Santa Guerra would be put to the test. Juan Cordoba wasn’t a man to overlook opportunity.

  With the Diaz regime firmly entrenched in Mexico City, General Juan Cordoba had been appointed commander of the lower Rio Grande. His selection particularly galled the Texans, for he had fought them under one flag or an
other for the past twenty years. Time had done nothing to dim his hatred, and once he’d occupied Matamoros, the plunder of ranches north of the border quickly assumed the guise of a holy crusade. Cordoba openly sanctioned the raids, stating that everything between the Nueces and the Rio Grande had been taken from Mexico by force, and therefore belonged to the Mexican people. The cattle rustling intensified, and the marauders were soon bragging, “The gringos raise our cows for us.” In return for official protection, Cordoba himself profited handsomely. He had stocked a ranch in the interior with stolen cattle, and regularly filled beef contracts for the Cuban and Mexican governments with cows bearing Texas brands. It was a lucrative and highly organized enterprise, and within the last year alone, Texans had lost more than 200,000 head to the raiders.

  Laird had devoted considerable thought to the summer ahead. His presence in Wichita was essential, yet his absence on the Santa Guerra would leave the ranch more vulnerable than ever. He saw only one recourse, and while it was extreme, there seemed no alternative. At last, determined to thwart Cordoba at all costs, he made the decision he’d been toying with for several days.

  “There is no easy way, compadre. But there is a way. Once the herds are on the trail, you will assign half the vaqueros to patrol duty for the balance of the summer.”

  “Blessed Virgin!” Ramon muttered. “Surely you’re not serious, Patron. That would cripple us. How can the work of all be done by only half?”

  “Hire more men,” Laird informed him. “Do whatever you must, but I want our boundary lines patrolled night and day. Those are my orders.”

  “Sin falta, Patron. It will be done.”

  “One other thing. Tell the men who ride patrol that it is my express wish that they take no prisoners. Quien sabe?”

  “De los enemigos los menos.” Ramon shrugged and smiled. “The fewer enemies the better.”

  “Aye, my thought exactly.”

  “Of course, there are some who have no stomach for such business. So I will assign my own sons to lead the most dangerous patrols. Los Lerdenos will then understand that your orders are in earnest. Verdad?”

  “Si, compadre. It would be an unmistakable gesture. But the thought worries me ... Roberto and Luis are quite young ... and the risk is great.”

  “Have no fear, Patron. These hijos of mine are men—duro hombres!—they will instruct Cordoba and his bravos in the proper manner.”

  “Hecho! I leave it to your judgment, old friend.”

  Laird’s gaze drifted out across the holding ground, and a slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Trudy was standing tall in her stirrups, hurling mock insults at the vaqueros, berating one and all for their laziness and lack of skill with the lariat. He shook his head, watching her antics with a sense of wonder, and finally stuffed the cigar in his mouth.

  “I think you’re in for a long summer, amigo.” Ramon followed his gaze, and nodded soberly. “Si, Patron. Already it appears endless.”

  “Buena suerte. I’ve an idea you’ll need it.”

  Chapter 17

  The lobby was deserted when Laird came down the stairs. From the bar he heard the drone of voices, mixed with laughter and the clink of whiskey glasses. The cattle buyers had already begun the evening ritual, spreading good cheer and hard liquor while they dickered on a herd of cows. It was a tricky game, one in which fortunes were made or lost on a handshake, and some cattlemen seemed to spend their lives trailing longhorns north only to be bamboozled by Yankee sharpers.

  Laird debated having a drink, then decided against it. The buyers had been after his herds for a week now, but he was still holding out for top price. Tactics were everything, and he’d learned long ago that a man who appeared anxious to sell seldom got a fair offer. Crossing the lobby, he stepped onto the hotel porch and took a seat in a rocker. He trimmed and lit a cigar, snuffed out the match, and propped his boots up on the porch railing. The day had been a scorcher, typical of the Kansas plains in June, and he could feel rivulets of sweat running down his backbone. Exhaling, he watched the smoke hang in the still air, then let his gaze wander over the dusty street.

  Wichita had become the reigning cowtown earlier that spring. The major railheads until then—Abilene, Ellsworth, and Newton—promptly lost the cattle trade once the Santa Fe tracks hit town. Wichita was farther south, saving the Texans a week on the trail, and it was a natural holding ground for longhorns. A vast sea of graze stretched in every direction, and the town itself was settled on the banks of the Arkansas, which was shallow and easily forded. Almost overnight the railroad had transformed a sleepy village into a boomtown.

  Yet, like most cowtowns, Wichita wasn’t much to look at. It was simply bigger and brassier, with the carnival atmosphere imported by the sporting crowd. Main Street and Douglas Avenue, the town’s only real streets, were lined with saloons and gaming parlors, several dance halls, and a few mercantile emporiums. The lone hotel was a three-story brick structure that looked curiously out of place amidst the sleazy, false-front establishments surrounding it. On the opposite side of the river was Delano, the red-light district. With remarkable foresight, the city council had banned the kingdom of whores to the west bank of the Arkansas. Trail-hands were forced to cross the river in search for women, and for those who disliked wading water, the town had conveniently erected a toll bridge.

  Still, despite its shabby appearance, Wichita was no town for pikers. The prairie was already dotted with longhorn herds, and it was estimated that upward of a half million head of cattle would be funneled through the railhead during the five-month trailing season. The stakes were big, the play was fast, and, before the end of September, somewhere around $15 million would have exchanged hands.

  Which was the very thing that concerned Laird. Within the past week six of his herds had reached Wichita, and the others were arriving daily. Normally, he held off selling, waiting for the market to peak, and until now he’d stalled any serious negotiations with buyers. But there were ominous tremors in the financial world back East, and cattle prices had fluctuated wildly over the last few days.

  On Wall Street the robber barons were slugging it out with brass knuckles. Vanderbilt and Gould, Morgan and Cooke, along with several lesser luminaries, were fighting for control of railroads, banks, and hundreds of millions in stock. While Laird knew little of high finance, he’d already grasped a truth which as yet eluded most cattlemen. The West was forever susceptible to the slightest disruption in the structure of a distant money market. As he saw it, a gathering storm loomed just over the horizon. When it broke, a wave of economic chaos would be set in motion, gaining momentum as it swept westward across the plains. And unless he misread the signs, hard times were about to overtake anyone who failed to hedge his bet.

  Puffing on his cigar, oblivious to the throngs of trailhands crowding, the street, he considered the knotty question of when to sell. If the market held firm and he sold too early, then he would lose tens of thousands of dollars in profit. On the other hand, if the market softened and he sold too late, then he might very well suffer a loss for the entire season. It occurred to him that greed had proved the downfall of more than one high roller. A smart gambler knew when to cut his losses and—of still greater consequence—he knew when to fold his hand and walk away winner. A sudden impulse told him to play his hunch, and after a moment’s thought, he set a dollar figure in his mind. That would be his limit, and once it was offered, he made a mental promise not to succumb to greed.

  Laird became aware that someone had taken the rocker next to him. Looking around, he found Josh Campbell, one of the Eastern cattle buyers, watching him with an amiable grin.

  “Josh, how goes the battle?” He flipped the cigar stub into the street. “Thought I heard you in the bar trying to sucker some cowman.”

  Campbell laughed. “Why, Hank, you know me better than that. I’m the soul of charity, just trying to make a living.”

 
“Aye, aren’t we all?”

  Though Campbell’s convivial manner was never to be trusted, Laird wasn’t offended by the mercenary nature of their friendship. He liked the dour little Scotsman, even enjoyed his caustic humor, and together they had sampled the delights of every cowtown in Kansas. But that in no way obligated him when it came time to talk money. The vagaries of the beef market were merely compounded by Campbell’s slippery methods, and he warned himself to go slowly.

  “Wee man that you are, Josh Campbell, you’re still a first-rate robber. And I’m on to your tricks, so you’ve no need to spread the blarney thicker than usual.”

  “Always the cynic.” Campbell stared back at him with round, guileless eyes. “I came out here to make you an honest offer, and all you do is subject me to personal abuse.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. I told you I’ll not sell till I’ve got my price. And you know me well enough to know I’ll wait till Hell freezes over.”

  “It’s Kansas that’ll freeze over, not Hell. You hold out for thirty dollars a head and you’ll end up wintering those cows on the Arkansas.”

  Laird chuckled. “Aye, and the way you dicker I’d likely come out ahead doing just that.”

  “Now there you go again, letting personal feelings stand in the way of business.”

  “Nothing personal about it. My price is the same for you as anyone else.”

  “Tell you what I’ll do, Hank. Twenty-two, for the whole works.”

  “By Judas! You’d steal the gold out of a man’s teeth. Twenty-eight and not a cent less.”

  “Hank, you’re a hard man to do business with. Twenty-three, and that’s my last offer.”

  “Twenty-seven and you’ve got yourself a deal.”