by Braun, Matt;
There was a loud crack and Johnson screamed in pain, grabbing at his knee. Laird shifted quickly, clouted him flush between the eyes, then broke his jaw with a hard clubbing blow. Johnson reeled backward, his crippled knee collapsing beneath him, and slammed into the bar. His head struck the brass rail and the impact sent whiskey bottles and glasses crashing to the floor. When the debris settled, Pigiron Johnson was flat on his back, his nose ballooned like a rotten apple, out cold.
Laird stumbled forward, chest heaving, his breathing labored. Blood oozed down over his cheekbone and an ugly cut split his upper lip. He lurched to a halt, pinwheels of light flashing in his head, stood for a moment gazing at the fallen man. Abruptly the glaze disappeared from his eyes and a surprised look came over his face. He hawked and rolled his tongue around, then spat out a bloody molar in the palm of his hand. He held the tooth at arm’s length, inspected it with clinical interest, and slowly the expression dissolved into a broad grin. He turned, thumb cocked behind the tooth, and fired it like a marble at Joe Starling.
“Aye, you great tub of guts, you’re next.”
Starling backed away from the bar, eyes wide with terror, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. Laird shuffled toward him, laughing silently, his features twisted in a gloating look of triumph. Halfway along the bar he stopped, as though he’d walked into a wall, and his face went chalky. He gasped, clutching at the bar for support, then an icy shudder swept over him. His heart seemed to burst, exploding deep within his chest, and suddenly the light went out in his eyes.
Hank Laird fell dead.
Chapter 29
The casket was borne up the hill by six vaqueros. Leading them was Ramon Morado, and a few steps behind the pallbearers, Trudy Laird Kruger followed slowly with her husband. The procession entered the family cemetery and halted. The casket was lowered onto planks laid across the grave, then the vaqueros stepped back, removing their sombreros. Trudy walked to the head of the grave, supporting herself on Kruger’s arm, and Ramon came to stand beside her.
Los Lerdenos were packed row upon row around the small cemetery. Altogether there were nearly two thousand people gathered on the hill; except for Sam Blalock and a few ranchers, the mourners were comprised totally of vaqueros and their families. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder in” the front row were the ancianitos, elders of the village, now bent and withered, who had begun riding for Santa Guerra in their youth. Behind them, stunned and grief-stricken, were four generations of Laird’s people, all come to pay homage to El Patron.
For Ernest Kruger, there was a sense of the unreal about the burial. Several hundred women in the crowd were sobbing and moaning, and he saw hardened vaqueros, proud yet unashamed, tears streaming down their faces. But it was the contrast in his wife that struck him most forcibly. Only two days ago, vibrant with youth, she had been gowned in blazing white when Sam Blalock entered the ballroom and approached them on the dance floor. Today she wore black, the same dress she’d worn to her mother’s funeral, and she looked older, somehow aged in a way Kruger couldn’t quite define. The suddenness of it all, compounded by Trudy’s odd behavior, left him vaguely uneasy; for reasons he hadn’t yet examined, he still felt very much the outsider, almost an interloper, and he wanted Hank Laird laid to rest without further delay. He opened his Bible and began to read.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my ...”
Trudy scarcely heard the words. Her eyes were like glazed alabaster, flat and unseeing in the bright sunlight. She stared at the coffin and saw nothing, yet revealed in her mind’s eye was the image of all that had once been and would never be again. Since returning to Santa Guerra, she had shut herself off from everyone, searching for answers that proved elusive and spectral. Her mind was suspended in the emptiness of dead years and unexpired emotions, and within the darkness of her torment she groped blindly for the truth of a time now gone.
Alone and thoughtful, virtually cloistered the last couple of days, she had awakened to the realization that nothing remains constant. She grieved for her father’s senseless death, and was haunted by the thought that his life had been extinguished to no purpose. Deep inside, she herself felt cheated; they were to have had another year together, the best of all years, and now there was nothing. It was as though she had closed her eyes for only a tiny moment and upon opening them found that the order of all about her had changed.
Yet there was constancy even in the midst of change. Santa Guerra lent a permanence all its own, and Los Lerdenos were as immutable as the earth itself. And while her father was gone, he would never really cease to exist. A part of him would forever be ...
“—with the certainty that we shall all meet again at the Resurrection, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
There was a moment of leaden silence. Then the sound of ropes sawing on wood jarred Trudy back to the present. She blinked and saw the vaqueros gently lowering her father’s casket into the ground. All around the cemetery Los Lerdenos were crossing themselves, and as the top of the casket disappeared, the wailing grew louder. Trudy took hold of herself, fought the sudden rush of tears, slowly gained a measure of composure. Her thoughts hardened to indrawn bleakness, focusing on the task ahead, and she forced herself to look away from the grave.
A hand touched her arm and Kruger drew her aside, lowering his voice. “I thought we’d ask the guests back to the house, serve a little something. It won’t take long and ...”
“You mean the ranchers?” He nodded and Trudy shook her head. “Maybe another time. I’m not entertaining today.”
“Yes, of course, but they’ve come a long way ...”
“Then they’re probably in a hurry to get home. Suppose you say my good-byes for me.”
She turned to Ramon. “Will you see me back to the house, compadre?”
“Si, La Madama, a sus ordenes...”
Trudy glanced at her husband, then walked from the graveyard on Ramon’s arm. Los Lerdenos opened a path before them, murmuring her name, and as she moved through the crowd, Trudy paused here and there to touch an old friend or exchange a word of sorrow. Then the throng slowly closed in behind her and she was lost to sight.
Alone in the study, Trudy sat curled in an ancient wing chair, legs tucked beneath her on the leather cushion. She held a faded tintype in her lap, her gaze fixed on Hank Laird and his crew grouped before the first steamboat he’d captained on the Rio Grande’. Her father was in the center, young and cocky, staring back at her across the years. He stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt, lean but broad through the shoulders, his mouth crooked in a brash, defiant smile.
The tintype evoked vivid memories. Her mother had been simply a warm presence during the years of her childhood. Someone she took for granted, smothering her with affection, forever lecturing on grace and manners and gentility. But her father was the one who had touched her life with some indelible part of himself. By sheer force of character, always laughing and pugnacious, he had taught her to challenge life; to ignore circumstances and convention and, despite the hidebound ways of those around her, to take what she wanted with eagerness rather than guilt. Until the day of his death he had retained that wild, unrepentant lust for living, and it was the reason she had idolized him with an almost godlike adoration. She cherished the memory of him in life, and loved him perhaps even more in death. His legacy was one of pride and determination, and an utter certainty of self.
Staring at the tintype, a slow smile warmed her face. A part of her had been buried with him, but by far, a greater part of Hank Laird lived on in her. She sensed it, felt him all around her, and knew she would never be alone in the days ahead. She would endure.
There was a light knock and Ernest Kruger opened the door. She laid the tintype on a side table, then waited silently while he crossed the room. She saw concern in his eyes, a flicker of dou
bt, and she motioned him to a chair. He sat down warily, like a hawk perched on a branch, his look guarded.
“Have they gone?”
“Everyone except Captain Blalock. I asked him to spend the night.”
“That was very considerate of you, Ernest.”
“Well, it’s been a difficult time ... for all of us.”
“And I haven’t helped things, have I?”
“You were upset.” His tone was moderate, but he glanced down, studying the carpet. “Only natural, under the circumstances.”
“But you still think I should have held a wake for all your cronies?”
Trudy had refused to hold funeral services in Brownsville. She insisted that her father be buried on Santa Guerra, beside her mother, and she adamantly rejected any thought of delay. The wedding guests from Austin were left in a quandary, for a journey to the ranch and back entailed several days’ travel. Over Kruger’s protests, the casket was loaded into a wagon early next morning, and he had no choice but to accompany his wife. The politicians boarded a steamboat that afternoon, thoroughly mystified by the whole affair, and headed downriver.
Kruger was hardly less bewildered himself. Even now, watching her, he sensed there was more to it. Like her father, she could be devious when it suited her purpose, and he felt very much on the defensive.
“Trudy, whether you believe it or not, those men aren’t my cronies. As a matter of fact, it was your father who invited them to the wedding. He always had his eye on the future, and he saw it as a device to strengthen our political ties.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Of course,” she replied flatly. “Pa wanted everyone to see that he’d personally tapped you as his son-in-law.”
“Do you know why?”
“I can make a pretty good guess. He figured after he was gone—and you’d taken over running Santa Guerra—that would make it easier for you to pull all the right strings in Austin. He always said money talks; evidently he thought you could spread it around where it would do the most good.”
“That’s incredible.” Kruger leaned back in his chair, eyed her keenly. “If you knew what he had in mind, then why did you go out of your way to offend those people?”
“Because the rules have changed.”
“Rules ... what rules?”
“You were picked by Pa,” she pointed out, “and he’s dead now. That sort of changes everything.”
“I don’t see how. We’re still married.”
“Are we? I seem to recall that our marriage hasn’t been ... what’s the word for it ... you know, the one all the nice people use?”
Kruger flushed. “Consummated.”
“That’s it ... consummated ... and you might say we’re still unconsummated, aren’t we?”
“Good god, Trudy, we just finished burying your father! There hasn’t been time for anything like that. A proper wedding night, I mean.”
“You missed the point, Ernest. Technically we’re not married.”
“Well, I can assure you we are legally.”
“You’re the lawyer, but would you really want to test that in court?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Suppose I went to court and asked to have the marriage annulled. Let’s even suppose the court ruled in your favor. You’d still be the laughingstock of Texas. And you damn sure wouldn’t carry much weight around Santa Guerra, would you?”
Kruger met her gaze, but the words came hard. “What is it you want, Trudy?”
“I want a new deal,” she told him. “Not the one you and Pa had ... whatever that was ... but something just between us. An arrangement.”
“Very well, I’m listening. What sort of arrangement?”
“Let’s take first things first. Did Pa change his will?”
“No, although he intended to after we were married. As it stands now, you are the sole heir.”
“In other words, he promised you part of Santa Guerra.”
“That’s correct. With the proviso that I would look after you and carry on the work he’d begun.”
They lapsed into silence. Trudy’s look became abstracted, and a long while passed as she sat perfectly still, staring at him. Finally she shifted around, pulling her legs from underneath her, and motioned toward the window.
“Santa Guerra needs someone like you, Ernest. Not that I couldn’t run it properly, but if it’s to become everything Pa envisioned, then we have to expand our landholdings, and at the same time we have to establish ourselves as a political force. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I see now that Pa was absolutely right ... you’re the man for the job.”
Kruger looked annoyed. “Your flattery overwhelms me. But to be quite frank about it, I have no intention of acting as your front man. Perhaps it’s a sound business arrangement, but as a marriage it stinks.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Trudy replied with a vague wave of her hand. “I’ll honor Pa’s bargain. So far as the world knows, you’ll be the new patron of Santa Guerra.”
“We’re to be partners, is that it?”
She hesitated, then shrugged. “Since you’re my husband, I suppose that’s only fair. But I want your word that you’ll consult with me straight down the line. If it involves Santa Guerra, I get the last vote ... understood?”
“I understand perfectly,” he said in a resigned voice. “What I don’t understand is our personal relationship. Are we to be man and wife ... or business associates?”
“Like I told you before,” she reminded him, “you’ll have to catch me in a good mood. But just to show you my heart’s in the right spot ... suppose we consummate it tonight?”
“The final seal,” he noted dryly. “Very appropriate.”
“Well, it’s almost final, but not quite. There’s one last condition.”
“And that is?”
“I want you to destroy Joe Starling.”
“Starling?”
“You heard me. I want him ruined financially and I want him driven out of politics. And I want him to know who did it.”
“If you’re after vengeance, why not pull out all the stops? Hire yourself an assassin and finish him off completely.”
“No. I want Joe Starling to live a long time. Every night before he goes to bed, I want him to remember that Hank Laird reached out of the grave and crushed his huevos.”
“And if I refuse to ... geld him ... then what?”
“Then you’re not the man Pa thought you were, and all bets are off. You wouldn’t be welcome on Santa Guerra.”
Kruger rubbed the stubble along his jawline, lips pursed, reflective a moment. He had the sensation of a man sinking ever deeper into quicksand, and he wasn’t at all sure that he was a match for the woman he’d married. It occurred to him that life with her would never be free of conflict; the best he could hope for was an occasional standoff, or perhaps a truce; and even then she would merely be resting, gathering her strength, forever intent on gaining the upper hand. But of course he loved her and wanted her desperately, and however irrational, it was her wild streak that had attracted him in the first place. On balance, he’d got everything he bargained for and, with a bit of luck, perhaps more.
At length, he drew a deep breath and nodded. “Hank would have approved of your plan. In a way it’s a little uncanny, but then I suppose it was to be expected. You’re really very much your father’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“The Mexicans have a proverb. Un cabello haze sombra. Even a hair casts a shadow.” Trudy laughed, mocking him with her eyes. “I can’t promise you a tranquil marriage, but it won’t be dull.”
Ernest Kruger never doubted it for an instant.
Book Three
1906–1909
Chapter 30
High in a leaden sky the buzzards wheeled and circled on an updraft. T
here were at least a dozen of them, sluggish black specks etched against the clouds, quartering a sector of land with unhurried interest.
On the ground, its muzzle dripping blood, the coyote went on feeding. A strayed calf had been brought down several minutes before, quickly killed, then its paunch ripped open in a spill of viscera. The coyote was lean and ravenous, gulping huge chunks of intestine, methodically gorging itself. Ever the wary hunter, it wouldn’t return to the carcass for a second feeding; all that could be eaten would be eaten now. The remains would be left to the scavengers overhead.
Nearly sated, the coyote paused, licking warm blood off its snout. Then its ears pricked, suddenly alert to danger, and the coyote lifted its head to the. wind. Across the prairie came the distant thud of hoofbeats, and an instant later the scent of something far worse. A blend of human odors mixed with horse sweat, and strongest of all, the dreaded scent of the killer beasts. The coyote turned from the calf and fled.
The sound of hoofbeats grew louder, but even before the horsemen appeared, a pack of five wolfhounds topped a low rise and coursed out ahead on the grassland. Their leader was a monstrous brute, almost three feet tall at the shoulders, outweighing all but the largest of men and heavily padded with muscle. He sighted the coyote immediately—a dun-colored streak of fur on the prairie—and burst into a lope that covered ground at a deceptively swift pace. Close be-hind, three bitches and a younger male lumbered after him, and the chase began in earnest. Since early spring,, when cows commenced dropping calves, the wolfhounds had hunted constantly; in slightly more than a month the pack had become known to every predator on Santa Guerra, and their quarry today sensed he wasn’t merely running for his life. The coyote was fleeing instead from death.
As the wolfhounds strung out in pursuit of the coyote, Hank Kruger and several vaqueros rode into view. The young patron was a rock of a man, with rugged features and a square jaw and intent blue eyes that took in the situation at a glance. He wore rough range clothes, topped off by batwing chaps and a grimy high-crowned Stetson. Brought up amongst Los Lerdenos, he understood the ways of the earth and all its creatures; he knew the coyote could never outrun his wolfhounds, that it would resort to trickery rather than speed; and he divined at once the general direction of the chase. Without breaking stride, he quartered southwest from the line of pursuit and roweled his horse into a gallop. Hunched low over the saddle, his voice buffeted by the wind, he urged the vaqueros onward.
