by Braun, Matt;
Afterward Trudy learned that her husband could be hard as a Prussian drillmaster once he assumed full authority. To his face, he was addressed as Patron, but among themselves the vaqueros called him El Alacron—The Scorpion—and apparently with good reason. He was demanding but fair in his dealings with Los Lerdenos ... until aroused. Then his sting was swift, without warning, and vaqueros who had suffered his wrath quickly spread the word that El Alacron was not a man to be crossed. It was no mean compliment among men who prided themselves on courage and gritty toughness.
Always redoubtable, Trudy attempted to regain lost ground, but her position was hopeless. The vaqueros answered only to her husband, and their attitude toward her had changed; they looked upon her now as a mother and wife, the mistress of the house, truly La Madama. She remained as contentious as ever, fiery-tempered and outspoken, spiteful to the point that she kept her bedroom door locked for several months after young Hank was born. But by her own choosing, the battles with her husband became private affairs, for she invariably lost. Ernest Kruger had at last become patron of Santa Guerra.
At the time, Trudy was particularly hurt by what she considered the betrayal of Luis Morado. Appointed caporal of the Coastal Division, Luis had evidenced complete loyalty to her husband, politely refusing to take her part in the dispute. In the beginning she thought Luis might still harbor a grudge over the death of his brother. But upon reflection she had to admit he’d never blamed her for Roberto’s tragic misadventure. If anything, Luis was even more understanding than his father; though the matter was never discussed, Ramon and the entire Morado family knew her grief was no less than their own. They also approved of her marriage to Ernest Kruger—a proper match for the daughter of El Patron—and understood that her grief, as a result, must be borne silently. As the mistress of Santa Guerra, it was best for all concerned that her affair with Roberto be forgotten. So in the end, once she’d thought it through, she knew there was nothing personal in Luis’s decision. He had supported her husband— accepted Ernest Kruger as his patron—simply because he believed it the wisest course for Santa Guerra.
With the years, Trudy had resigned herself to the situation, though she was by no means content with the secondary role of wife and mistress of the casa grande. In time, she even forgave Luis, and he once again became her closest friend, almost a confidant. Through him, she was able to influence, to some small degree, the daily management of Santa Guerra. Yet there were certain matters, notably her marriage, on which they seldom agreed. Luis was of the old school, very much the son of Ramon Morado, and believed men’s work should be left to men, especially where it involved her husband, the patron. Trudy tolerated his views, but she never fully reconciled herself to defeat. One day, when the time was right, she still thought it would be possible to wrest control away from Ernest Kruger.
Today, with Luis Morado at her side, Trudy sat her horse on a rise overlooking the breeding pastures. Apart from her status on Santa Guerra, she had few regrets. Nor was she any longer bedeviled by illusions about herself. Time had treated her harshly in many ways, and thirty years had added gray to her hair, worry lines to her face. Yet she was strong and healthy, still a match for her husband whenever she allowed him into her bed. Of greater consequence, and perhaps the chief source of her fortitude, was the fact that she had accepted a truth spoken by her father so many years ago. Santa Guerra needed a man! For the moment, that man was her husband, and though she’d never told him so outright, he had accomplished far more than she had ever dreamed possible. Over the years she had come to respect and admire him, and while he’d never once stirred her blood, there were times when she genuinely liked him. Yet age and experience had taught her that the only constant in life was the inevitability of change.
What was true today might prove patently false tomorrow. Santa Guerra needed a man, but there was no man for all seasons. And where she had failed, another might succeed. Not easily or quickly but, with the proper guidance, inevitably.
She sat for a long while watching a mare and its foal graze in the pasture below. And her thoughts turned to young Hank.
Chapter 32
“Three to one, senor. No more!”
“Valgame Dios! I asked for odds, hombre. Don’t insult me!”
“Ahhh, it is you who insult me, senor. The negro is a killer —El Diablo’s asesino!—he’s never been beaten. Twenty times he’s been pitted, maybe more, and still he lives!”
“Si, but always against one bird. Tonight he faces seven— count them, hombre!—seven blooded gallos. Each of them a guerrero ... a warrior!”
“Pollitos, senor ... chickens not cocks! ... no match for the negro. It will be a slaughter!”
“But think, hombre! You have seven chances—all fighters who have survived the pit before!—and I have only the negro. The odds are seven to one, clearly in your favor. Verdad?”
“Seven to one! No, senor, impossible! Perhaps four to one ... for a modest wager ... but no more. That’s all!”
“A thousand pesos, hombre. For a sporting man such as yourself, that should be modest indeed.”
“Si, I would venture a thousand.”
“Then it’s done?”
“Agreed, senor.”
“Hecho!”
Hank Kruger grinned, exchanging a firm handshake with the Mexican. Then he turned to the girl on his arm and winked. She smiled, quite impressed by the way he’d boosted the odds. Yet there was something tentative in her eyes, a question. As they edged through the crowd, moving closer to the pit, she gave him a searching look.
“It is a great deal of money.”
“A modest wager,” Hank replied, mimicking the Mexican’s voice. “Any more and I would have frightened him off.”
“Then you are certain of the gallo negro ... certain you will win?”
“Of course, chica! With you at my side, how could I lose?”
The girl giggled. “Do I really bring you luck, senor ... buena fortuna?”
“Ask the Virgin to make it so, little one. If the negro wins, I will give you a share.”
“A share ... for me, senor ... truly?”
“Si, quinientos pesos, all for yourself.”
The girl squealed and hugged his arm to her breasts. She was one of hundreds of putas who practiced their trade in Matamoros. Younger than most, her attractiveness not yet dulled, she could hardly envision five hundred pesos. A night’s work normally brought less than a tenth that amount, and always the policia, with their hands out, greedily demanding half of all she earned. She thanked the Virgin that this fair-haired gringo had wandered into the cantina tonight. She mentally crossed herself that he had selected her over the other girls, that he hadn’t taken her straight-away to bed but had instead brought her to the cock-fights. She blessed him for his generosity, and promised herself— whether the negro cock won or lost—that the gringo would experience a night in bed such as he’d never known before. A man with so little regard for money must be encouraged to return another night ... and another ... always to her bed.
The girl was new to her trade, lacking the cynicism of a veteran puta, and still a poor judge of character. Hank Kruger regularly visited Matamoros, often for days at a time. Among the sporting element, his was a familiar face. There was hardly a gambling dive or cantina or whorehoule in the whole of Matamoros where he wasn’t known, Tales of his grandfather—the hard-fisted riverman—were part of local folklore, and it was commonly agreed that the grandson had been formed in the same mold. Sober, he was the soul of courtesy, generous to a fault. Drunk, he was sullen and abusive, with a hair-trigger temper, ready to administer a brutal beating at the slightest affront. It was in Matamoros that he had earned his nickname—El Onza—and few questioned that, within him, something of the mythical beast was unleashed by liquor. Yet his trips to Matamoros were begun in a spirit of revelry and escape. He came there to gamble and carouse and spend himself on w
hores. And to forget Santa Guerra.
With the girl hanging on his arm, Hank cleared a path through the crowd. There were few Anglos among the spectators, and though he rudely jostled several Mexicans, none of them took offense. A cock-fight was often more dangerous for those attending than for the spurred gallos in the pit. The combative aura, enhanced by liquor and feverish betting, transformed even the mildest of men into a macho hombre. Knives flashed at any provocation, real or imagined, and the action’ outside the pit was frequently the highlight of the evening. Yet few men, unless pushed to the limit, cared to tangle with the young gringo from Santa Guerra. His work was known and respected, and his eagerness to fight was considered unnatural. Like the gallos, he seemed to enjoy it.
Tonight, Hank was still in an amiable mood, not yet drunk. After making a place for himself and the girl in the front row, he pulled a pint of tequila from his coat pocket. He offered it to the girl, but she shook her head and he tipped the bottle, downing a quick shot. He corked it, wiping his lips, and returned the bottle to his pocket. Then he leaned forward, elbows on a wooden railing which encircled the pit. His eyes were drawn to the negro and a slow smile touched the corner of his mouth.
The pit was roughly twenty feet in diameter, a hard-packed dirt arena perhaps three feet below floor level. Crude bleachers, already jammed with spectators, surrounded the pit, which was located in an old warehouse near the waterfront. Overhead, suspended from beams, kerosene lanterns lighted the room through a haze of smoke. A smell of sweat and tobacco, blended with the musty odor of rotting timber, permeated the warehouse. Nearer the pit there was a different smell. The earthen floor, stained chocolate brown with old blood, now reeked of fresh blood and recent death.
Already that evening there had been ten mains, traditional fights in which two gamecocks were pitted to the death. But the event of the night, about to be conducted, was a batalla real. Brought to Mexico from ancient Spain, the battle royal pitted eight cocks at the same time, and was allowed to continue until all but one, the victor, were either killed or crippled. The rivalry among cockmasters was intense, and the betting heavy; the victor of a batalla real was considered to be a supreme gallo, bestowing honor and great prestige on his owner. The cocks were subjected to a rigid training program in the week prior to the event; daily sparring sessions were held, in which the natural spurs were covered with leather to avoid injury; wing feathers were trimmed, the hackle shortened, and a special diet slowly brought the bird to fighting trim. On the day of the event, the gallos were allowed no food, only water, and an hour before the actual pitting, they were dosed with stimulants to increase their ferocity. Then, at pitside, each cock had fastened to his natural spurs specially crafted steel spurs two inches in length or longer. A tiny feathered warrior, shanked with steel, the gallo was at last ready for the batalla real.
The eight cockmasters were spaced evenly around the pit, awaiting the signal to release their gallos. Most of the cocks were bronze red in color, with a couple of duns and a lone black. Held in his owner’s hands, the black was immobile, staring calmly at nothing. His eyes were fierce bright buttons of malevolence, yet he seemed utterly oblivious of the other cocks. It was almost as though he couldn’t be bothered, not while he was still pinioned. His look was one of hauteur, withdrawn and solitary.
Watching him, Hank felt a curious kinship with the negro. Though he wasn’t drunk, he had the sense of gazing into a mirror, staring at an oddly fashioned image of himself. The look in the gallo’s eye was one he recognized, for it was his own. A detached look, very private and somehow disinterested. Not so much cold as simply uncaring, remote and un-involved. A look of one who holds himself aloof from the crowd, not out of contempt but rather out of preference. The look of a loner, alone yet never lonely.
Hank pondered it a moment, found an unexpected revelation in the gallo negro’s manner. With the girl at his side, standing in a warehouse jammed with men, he was still alone. There, one of the crowd, yet apart; with them but not of them. Nor was it simply Matamoros, time and circumstance, attributable to strange men and a strange girl. He was the stranger! Even on home ground—on Santa Guerra! —he was the oddball. The outsider.
The one who somehow never belonged.
The thought jolted him. Yet it explained the sense of ... indifference ... he’d lately experienced toward so many things. And people. His mother and father, the ranch, even his oldest friends among Los Lerdenos. A man who didn’t belong gradually drifted away, cut himself off. Eventually, all sense of obligation diminished, he chose to stand alone. It was just that simple.
Or was it? Hank considered it a moment longer, and realized there was a nagging uncertainty in the back of his mind. Not about his folks necessarily. He knew his whoring and rowdy behavior worried his mother, and for her sake he felt a stab of regret. At bottom, though, he’d always known that she secretly delighted in his deviltry. She was concerned he’d catch the clap or get a knife planted in his ribs, but she’d never once raised the subject of the family name. She just didn’t give a good goddamn about the opinion of anyone outside the boundaries of Santa Guerra. His father, on the other hand, was practically cross-eyed with disgust. To him, public opinion meant everything, and he was deeply humiliated by Hank’s unsavory reputation. None of which concerned Hank one way or another. His father was fussy as an old maid—a regular pain in the ass!—and he’d told him so the last time they clashed. Since his father couldn’t whip him in a fight, that pretty well settled the matter. By mutual agreement, they avoided each other whenever possible.
So it wasn’t his folks that troubled Hank. The thorn of doubt had to do with Santa Guerra and Los Lerdenos. Though he’d tried to convince himself otherwise, the feeling persisted, and he’d never been able to make a clean break. His every instinct told him to cut loose and make a life for himself—on his own terms—yet something held him on Santa Guerra. For reasons he’d never quite unraveled, he felt an intense core of loyalty toward the ranch and Los Lerdenos, who were as much a part of Santa Guerra as the earth itself. Somehow he felt responsible for their welfare, and in a way that baffled him completely, he sensed some inner commitment to the land. Not the dirt and rocks and grass, but something intangible, embodied in the vision of Santa Guerra. It was all very confusing, and the sort of obligation he’d long ago hoped to outdistance. In that, much as he hated to admit it, he’d failed miserably.
Then there was Becky. Still another quandary, and perhaps all the worse because it was an emotion he understood and deeply feared. If anything, a personal commitment was even more burdensome than what he felt toward Santa Guerra. A man could always walk away from a ranch, maybe not without regret, but it could be done. A wife was an altogether different matter, one that fettered a man with chains heavy enough to root him forever. Yet he’d thus far been unable to exercise any control over himself or the situation. Everytime they were together he got himself in a little deeper, and sooner or later he knew she would raise the specter of marriage. To his great annoyance, he realized he hadn’t the faintest notion of how to handle it. He wanted the honey without the sting, and as any damn fool knew, one went with the other. It was a sorry mess, and getting sorrier all the time.
Suddenly it occurred to him that these were the very things he’d come to Matamoros to forget. Time enough to worry about them later, when he had no choice. For now, he had a pocketful of money and a regular little chili pepper hanging on his every word. With only modest effort, he could down enough pop-skull to wash away his troubles, and get himself screwed blue in the process. A man could hardly ask more out of life. Happy times, a chiquita willing to perform all sorts of bizarre and raunchy acts to astound him, and a thousand pesos at four-to-one on the meanest little sonovabitch of a cock ever to set foot in a pit. He pulled the bottle of tequila and knocked back a liberal dose in salute to the gallo negro.
As he corked his bottle, the signal was given and the cocks were pitted. Several of the bir
ds spread their wings, strutting about in a menacing stance, while the others glared around the pit with looks of ferocious indecision. But there was nothing hesitant or indecisive about the gallo negro. He’d come to fight, and when his handler released him, the little cock’s toes barely touched the ground. With a lightning-swift movement, he leaped high in the air, twisting sideways, and drove a steel spur through the head of a dun gallo on his immediate right. The dun was killed instantly, thrashing about in a welter of blood, and the negro whirled without pause, attacking a red gallo to his rear. Amidst squawks and beating wings, spurs flashed under the glow of lanterns, and the red was dispatched in a flurry of blood-soaked feathers. The savagery of the negro’s assault seemed to break the spell, and suddenly the batalla real began in earnest. Of the remaining cocks, two reds squared off and the dun quickly engaged another red. That left only one red, alone in the center of the pit, confronted by black death itself. The negro ruffled his wings, standing a moment tall and stiff-legged, then he stalked eagerly to resume the kill. Even as he struck the red, the other gallos jabbed and slashed, weakening themselves in a furious battering of one on one. The crowd roared, on their feet now, shouting and screaming, caught up in a frenzied contagion of bloodlust. Under the lanterns, the pit filled with dust and explosions of feathers, and the flailing spurs of a swift black streak.
Hank leaned across the railing, unaware that the girl was hopping up and down, wildly pounding his shoulders. His eyes were fixed on the gallo negro and there was a fierce look of affection in his gaze. His lips moved, mouthing silent words, fists clenched.
“Kill! Asesinato, negro! Kill them!”
Chapter 33
Alone building marked the townsite of Lairdsville. It was little more than an elaborate shack, constructed of raw lumber, with one window and a door. The exterior had been whitewashed, and it stood like a mote of ivory on a broad plain some four miles inland from the coast. Over the door, firmly anchored to the roof beams, was a bold hand-lettered sign.
