Lords of the Land

by Braun, Matt;

  “Something wrong?” His eyes narrowed. “Let’s keep it straight, Mr. Laird. That is Cordoba ... isn’t it?”

  “Aye, it’s Cordoba.”

  “I don’t know ... the way you two look ... you’re damn sure about that, now?”

  “God’s blood! Are you calling me—”

  A sudden rush of color flooded Laird’s features and he gasped for breath. He staggered, clutching his chest, and slumped at the knees. Ramon caught him under the arms, holding him upright, and McNelly hurried forward. The attack ran its course quickly, however, and within moments Laird’s breathing was even, if labored. Though his features were pallid and his speech thick, he brushed McNelly aside with a weak shove.

  “Leave me be. I don’t need your help.”

  “Maybe not, but you need somebody’s help. I’d suggest you sit a spell, Mr. Laird, take it easy. We can handle it from here.”

  Laird straightened, filled his lungs with air, and his eyes took on a strange cast. “We’re not done yet. I want Las Cuevas burned to the ground! Do you hear me, McNelly ... leveled!”

  “Don’t worry about it. I was of the same thought myself.”

  “And one other thing.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “I want these ... Cordoba and his men ... I want them buried.”

  “We don’t bury outlaws, Mr. Laird. The buzzards do it for us.”

  “By the Holy Jesus, you’ll bury these, McNelly. You’ll bury them—and you’ll do it proper!”

  McNelly eyed him for a long while, then shrugged and walked back to his horse. As he rode away, Laird seemed to collapse, slumping heavily against Ramon. Their eyes met, and Laird smiled. His old friend swallowed hard, slowly nodded.

  “Gracias, Patron. Gracias.”

  Chapter 27

  Laird sat brooding into a cheerful blaze. The weather was unseasonably brisk for September, and despite the warmth of the fireplace, his bones felt cold. His chin was sunk on his chest, and a cigar jutted from his mouth like a burnt tusk. The flames held his gaze, mirrored in a hollow stare, almost as though he were mesmerized. Yet he was alert, inwardly on edge, absorbed in thought.

  All his problems—save one—were now resolved. The summer had been a time of immense progress and high triumph. Exactly as he’d predicted, the beef market recovered by late July, and after deducting all expenses, his cattle operation had cleared better than $300,000 for the year. Though he had anticipated an excellent return, this was more in the nature of windfall profits, and to no small degree he credited the result to Angela’s management of Santa Guerra. It left him bitter, often depressed, that she hadn’t lived to see her efforts rewarded.

  On the other side of the ledger, however, all accounts had been squared. Captain L.H. McNelly, true to his word, had virtually halted rustling along the lower Rio Grande. The attack on Las Cuevas had set the tone of his campaign; no quarter was asked and none given, and throughout the summer his Rangers all but annihilated a generation of cow thieves. By late August, with Juan Cordoba dead and his squadrons decimated, the bandidos who survived rarely ventured north of the border. Only last week, McNelly had called a halt to the campaign and, with his Rangers, ridden off to another assignment. Their work was done.

  Laird was satisfied with the outcome, if not wholly content. His one regret concerned Roberto. Upon returning from Las Cuevas, he’d called Trudy into the study. There, as gently as possible, he told her how Roberto had died saving his life. She began crying even before he’d finished, confessing that Roberto had saved her as well on the night Santa Guerra was raided. Only then did he realize how very much the youngsters had meant to each other; in retrospect, he saw that his own intolerance had triggered an unfortunate chain of events, with tragic consequences. Still, though he hadn’t admitted it to Trudy, he knew the affair would have ended badly however it was handled. He would never allow her to many a Mexican! Even as he consoled her, he’d told himself that Las Cuevas was the better ending after all. Under different circumstances, he would have killed Roberto himself.

  Yet he was genuinely touched by her grief, and he’d held her until she cried herself out. Then he swore her to secrecy, and explained all the reasons why he’d chosen to keep the truth from Ramon. A good man, practically her second father, had killed his own son by mistake. It was important that she understand—and accept the fact—that Ramon had acted in the belief he was protecting his patron. She mustn’t blame Ramon for the boy’s death, for that would be a terrible injustice. Nor was she ever to reveal the truth of the matter, for that would destroy a decent and honorable man. Indeed, she must make her peace with Ramon, for now that her mother was gone, she would assume the administrative duties of Santa Guerra. She would be working more closely than ever with Ramon, and it was essential that there be harmony between them. Trudy had agreed, her sympathy toward Ramon almost as great as her grief for Roberto. She promised to put aside the past ... to forgive ... and forget.

  In subsequent days, it became apparent that Trudy, however well intentioned, was no administrator. She simply had no gift for organization, and temperamentally she was un-suited to the drudgery of musty ledgers and ink-stained fingers. Nor was she capable of handling liaison with Ramon and the caporals. She acted as a buffer of sorts, insulating Laird from worrisome details, but her disorganized manner was a continuing source of aggravation. Even Ramon, who had taken her underwing, found himself hard-pressed to excuse her lapses.

  Several times, as the situation worsened, Laird had toyed with the idea of relieving her and once again assuming the burden himself. But on reflection, particularly after his last visit to San Antonio, he had discarded the notion. Doc Parker bluntly warned him that his heart condition had deteriorated; any strenuous activity, even excitement or unusual stress, might very well result in a stroke. It was a dim prognosis, and the physician cautioned him not to be a fool. The alternative was a risk that needed little elaboration.

  So Laird heeded the advice and, with uncharacteristic restraint, put aside any thought of resuming his old work load. But he was by no means idle, for he was quick to grasp, after Doc Parker’s warning, that time dictated the urgency of a far greater problem. Santa Guerra needed a master and the Laird bloodline needed a sire. And if he was to accomplish all that, Trudy needed a husband.

  As to the proper man, Laird’s view had merely been strengthened over the past year. Ernest Kruger was the logical choice on all counts. A man of iron discipline, who could contend with Trudy’s unruly spirit, and a man who had exhibited growing fascination with the world of Santa Guerra. Of course, Kruger had proved somewhat awkward in his courtship, and Trudy suffered his advances with imperial disdain. But Laird could no longer afford to wait; their curious mating dance offered little hope of resolution. Nor could he rely on added proximity, however artfully contrived, to bring them together. Time was precious, slipping past like sand in an hourglass, and he sensed the need to act. Cleverly staged, perhaps, but nonetheless a direct approach.

  Ever punctual, Ernest Kruger arrived late that afternoon. One of the servants ushered him into the study, and Laird greeted him with a warm handshake. Ostensibly, the young lawyer had been summoned to discuss business. Within the last year, he had worked tirelessly to validate claim on nearly 100,000 acres of ranchland; his dedication, along with a burgeoning loyalty to Santa Guerra itself, had earned Hank Laird’s complete trust. If not friends, the two men were easy in one another’s company, and their mutual respect was enormous. But today, unlike past meetings, Laird reverted to his old self. He became demanding, and devious.

  “I’ve been wondering about the boys in Austin ... that’s one reason I sent for you. Have they seen the light?”

  “Yes and no.” Kruger stood for a moment at the fireplace, then took a chair. “I suppose they’re like most politicians; they would prefer it under the table rather than out in the open. But we’re making headway.”

>   “Aye, but slowly. That’s my point.”

  “We agreed in the beginning that we wouldn’t resort to bribes. ...”

  “And a damn fool promise it was!”

  “... so it’s campaign contributions or nothing.”

  “You’ve still not answered my question.”

  “Yes, some of them have seen the light. And no, others haven’t. Keep in mind, though, elections are next year, and once our men are in office, we can legitimately demand favors. In the long run, contributions will be far more binding than bribes.”

  “It’s the short run I’m worried about, especially if we get hit with another land suit. I want some judges in your pocket, and I want it done by the end of the year.”

  “Oh?” Kruger crossed his legs, brought his hands together, fingers steepled. “Why the rush?”

  Laird brushed the question aside. “Tell me about your land dealings ... any problems?”

  “As a matter of fact, we’re progressing quite smoothly. Of the original five hundred seventy thousand acres, we now have nearly four hundred thousand under valid title.”

  “Airtight?”

  “Absolutely. And by this time next year, we’ll have it all ... one block of land.”

  “Not fast enough. Offer the holdouts more money—do whatever you have to do!—but speed it up.”

  “I detect a note of urgency. May I ask why?”

  “Simple. I don’t expect to be around this time next year.” Laird paused, watchful. “I’m dying.”

  “Hank—” Kruger started from his chair. “My God, Hank, are you ...”

  “Aye, I’m sure. And let’s have no sentiment about it.” Laird waved him down, waited until he’d composed himself. “One other thing. It’s strictly confidential, between you and me. Trudy mustn’t be told.”

  “Yes, of course, if you feel ...”

  “It would serve no purpose, and that’s the way, I want it. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Fine. Now, let’s get down to brass tacks.”

  Laird’s eyes narrowed, and a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. “It’s my wish that you marry Trudy.”

  Kruger blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

  “You heard me. She needs a husband and Santa Guerra needs someone with a firm hand. To my way of thinking, you’re the man that fits the ticket.”

  “You make it sound like a business proposition.”

  “It is, in a manner of speaking. You’d get Santa Guerra— as part of the bargain—and absolute control to do as you please. Of course I’d expect a promise that you’ll carry on what I started, keep building.” His fist struck the arm of the chair. “The land, Ernie, that’s what counts. Nothing else! And it’s the very reason I’ve chosen you. When I go, I want to make damned certain the dream doesn’t go with me. I know you wouldn’t let me down on that score.”

  “And Trudy?”

  “You let me handle Trudy.”

  “I begin to see,” Kruger said quietly. “It’s an arranged marriage, with a rather generous dowry. Isn’t that about the gist of it?”

  “I’ll tempt you, but I’ll not try to buy you.”

  “Very commendable. What about Trudy, though? Don’t her wishes enter into it?”

  “Aye, to a degree. But I’m more concerned with her welfare than her wishes.” Laird smiled, and the craftiness gleamed behind his eyes. “You love her, don’t you?”

  Kruger nodded. “You knew the answer to that before you asked.”

  “Then we’ve no argument, have we?”

  “No, I suppose not ... except for Trudy. She’s not exactly smitten with me. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “Trudy’s no obstacle, if we’ve a deal.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Very well, Hank, it’s a deal.”

  “You’ll look after her and carry on with Santa Guerra ... the same as I would?”

  “You have my word on it.”

  “Aye, and I’ll have your hand on it too.”

  Laird heaved himself to his feet, standing tall and commanding in front of the fireplace. Still a bit dazed, Kruger rose and stepped forward. Then, quite solemnly, they shook hands.

  Trudy left the commissary shortly before sundown. In her father’s stead, she had taken on the administrative duties of the ranch, and quickly found it to be a loathsome task. She had no head for figures, and her mother’s accounting ledgers, which detailed every transaction on the whole of Santa Guerra, left her in a constant state of bafflement. She detested the work and despised herself for allowing it to make her life so miserable. And she was plagued by the thought that the wild, carefree days were gone forever.

  A group of vaqueros rode into the compound as she neared the house. She waved, calling out to them, but the men merely nodded, smiling soberly, and tipped their sombreros. The catcalls and vulgar insults, all the good-natured ribbing she’d once treasured, were now a thing of the past. She had become La Madama Poco—little mistress of Santa Guerra—and the old ways were no longer proper. These days, Los Lerdenos accorded her respect and great deference, for in their minds, considering her new station, it was unthinkable to do otherwise. She missed their ribald humor and bitterly resented the change. Sometimes, in the dark of night, she lay awake and yearned for those simpler days. The laughter and gaiety, fandangos and music and midnight trysts at the swimming hole. The freedom she’d known and lost ... and the man ... Roberto.

  Upon entering the house, she was met by a servant and informed that El Patron desired her presence in the study. She found her father and Ernest Kruger standing before the fireplace, and her already frayed temper took a sudden turn for the worse. She considered Kruger a pest and a bore and an intruder on her privacy. His unwanted attentions were a constant source of annoyance, and it galled her that yet another evening would be wasted fending off his clumsy overtures. On top of a dreadful day, it was simply too much. Hijo de puta!

  With a thin smile, she greeted Kruger, noting his strange expression, and started across the room. Then she glanced at her father, saw the cocksure grin, and some intuitive sense warned her to beware. She stopped, studying them a moment, finally came a step closer, and regarded her father with a bemused smile.

  “You two look like you got caught with your hand in the cookie jar. Anything wrong?”

  “On the contrary,” Laird chortled, “it’s been a red-letter day.”

  “Oh, something special?”

  “Aye, lass, very special indeed.” Laird hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets. “I’m delighted to inform you that not ten minutes ago this young fellow asked for your hand in marriage.” He turned his head just far enough to rivet Kruger with a look. “Isn’t that so, Ernie?”

  Kruger nodded, abjectly uncomfortable under the older man’s stare, then glanced at Trudy. “I would be honored— truly honored—if you will consent to be my wife.”

  “There, didn’t I tell you, lass? A proper proposal if ever I heard one.”

  Trudy gave her father a lightning frown. Something cold and visceral flashed inside her, a blinding thing that made her go rigid. She eyed him in silence a moment, utterly dumbfounded and speechless with rage. Then she threw her head back and laughed.

  “You’re loco! Both of you! Especially you, Pa.”

  “Watch your tongue, girl. It’s no jesting matter.”

  “Valgame Dios! You’re the joker, not me. But I’ll tell you one thing, Pa ... and you can damn well mark it down as fact. I’m not marrying anybody, and most especially”—she stabbed at Kruger with her finger—”I’m not marrying him!”

  Kruger flushed, gave her a wounded look, and turned to leave. Laird halted him with an upraised palm. “You’ve no chance if you take to your heels now. Do you want to marry her, or don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” Kruger replied angrily. “But I won’t beg anyon
e, not even your daughter.”

  “You’ll not have to beg. Not in this house.”

  Laird swung around, fixed the girl with a dark scowl. His tone was curt and inquisitorial. “Have you no respect for your father’s wishes?”

  “I won’t be bullied, Pa. So don’t you try ... don’t you dare!”

  “Well then, if not me, what about the ranch? Have you no thought for the good of Santa Guerra?”

  “Santa Guerra?”

  “Aye, I’ll not be around forever, you know. Santa Guerra needs a man with a firm hand and a head on his shoulders. I say Ernie’s the man for the job, and on top of that, he’ll make you a good husband.”

  “Like hell he will!” Trudy said fiercely. “I don’t need him and Santa Guerra doesn’t need him. Sangre de Cristo! He’s not even a cattleman.”

  “No, he’s not. But he’s a quick learner and he’s got backbone. And he’s got a way with Los Lerdenos. Have you thought about that? What happens to them when I’m gone? You can’t hold it together by yourself and don’t tell me different. Judas Priest! You can’t even keep the books straight on your own.”

  “So what? I can always hire some flunkey to keep books. They’re a dime a dozen.”

  Laird dismissed the idea with brittle indifference. “You’re talking nonsense. You need a man ... a husband ... there’s no way you can run Santa Guerra by yourself. Hold your temper and think about it a minute. You’ll see I’m right.”

  Trudy said nothing, offered no encouragement.

  A moment passed, then Laird shrugged, his voice softer. “It’s not just the ranch, lass. I want what’s best for you, and funny as it sounds ... I’d like to live long enough to see some of my grandchildren. Would you deny me that?”

  “Oh Pa, don’t—” Trudy stopped, head cocked to one side. “What’s all this talk about ‘when you’re gone’ and ‘while you’re still around’? Has your heart been acting up again? And none of your bull, Pa ... has it?”