by Braun, Matt;
“Hank?”
“Ummm ... what ... what’s the matter?”
“Hank, do you love me?”
“Oh—god—Becky—don’t you know?”
“Say it, Hank ... tell me ... now.”
“I love you, honey, love you, honest to god!”
“You’re positive”—she squeezed gently—”it’s not just this making you say it?”
“Holy God Almighty, no more talk. I love you, Becky, I love you!”
“And I love you too.”
She wrenched his hardness aside and at the same time slammed him in the chest with her other hand. He toppled off her and fell away onto the bed with a strangled yelp.
“Jesssus Christ!”
Becky leaped out of bed, snatching her nightgown off the floor, and walked toward the door. Hank thrashed around, clutching himself, rolled onto his knees and stared after her with an expression of oxlike bewilderment. She stood for a moment, allowing him to watch as the moonlight bathed her nakedness in a spectral glow. Then she shrugged into her nightgown and blew him a kiss.
“You can have it all, lover ... on our wedding night.
“ She opened the door and stepped outside. As the latch clicked, she heard a muffled groan, followed by the squeak of bedsprings and a string of muttered curses. A vixen look touched her eyes, and deep inside, musical laughter flooded her heart.
She smiled and fled swiftly down the hall.
Chapter 38
Kruger spotted them through the plate glass window.
An instant later the door opened. The farmers entered the bank and marched straight past the tellers’ cages. There were four of them, ranked two by two, and something about their stride reminded him of soldiers advancing on an enemy position. The head teller started toward them, then cast a hurried glance at Kruger, whose desk was guarded by a balustrade at the rear of the bank. Kruger warned him off with an almost imperceptible nod, and tilted back in his chair, watching the farmer. It was a visit he’d been expecting for the past week.
The men were led by Lon Hill, one of the first settlers, and according to rumor, self-appointed spokesman for the farm community. Their features were like whang leather, hardened in an expression of grim determination, and they looked tough as mules. Without breaking stride, they pushed through the swinging gate of the balustrade and halted before Kruger’s desk.
A moment passed while Kruger studied them with a look of cool appraisal, then he smiled. “Gentlemen.. Mr. Hill. How are you today?”
“Tolerable,” Hill said shortly. “But this ain’t no social visit, so you can forget the honors.”
“Very well, Mr. Hill, down to business. What can I do for you?”
“Well, we’ve been holdin’ meetings around the county ...”
“Yes, I know.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you do. Ain’t much goes on you don’t hear about, is there?”
Lon Hill was a gnarled, lynx-eyed man. He had a straight mouth and a jutting chin, with a cleft so wide it looked as though it had been split with an ax. His life was a chronicle of failure—littered with a trail of barren homesteads—but he was undaunted by adversity. He’d come to the Rio Grande Valley, hopes revitalized, still clinging to a dream; there was no thought of failure, not this time, for he was fifty-three years old and desperate. The quarter-section outside Lairdsville represented his last chance.
When Kruger declined to answer, merely watching him, Hill dismissed it with a gesture. “Makes no never-mind anyhow. Everybody knows about your spies, but we’ve got nothing to hide. The fact is ... we’ve formed a Grangers Association, and me and the boys here”—he jerked his thumb at the other farmers—”was asked to serve as a delegation on everybody’s behalf.”
“A commendable choice, Mr. Hill. But how does that concern me?”
Hill pulled a slip of paper from his coat pocket and slammed it on the desk. “There’s my tax assessment—two dollars an acre!—and it’s the same for every farm in the county.”
“Yes, go on.”
“Go on! Jesus Christ A’mighty, we’re not gonna stand for it. We only paid five dollars an acre and now they’re tryin’ to tax us half of what it’s worth.”
“Not at all, Mr. Hill. I understand the assessments are based on current valuation, which is something over twenty dollars an acre.”
“That’s a load of horseshit, Kruger, and we both know it.”
“On the contrary, your land has quadrupled in value since you bought it. I’d say you’re very fortunate, very fortunate indeed.”
Kruger’s point was well taken. A resurgence of trade, generated now by rails instead of boats, had come to the Rio Grande Valley. The old Brownsville-Matamoros traffic was’ thriving and, along with the agricultural development, it had brought growth and prosperity to the entire area. By summer the first cotton crop was due to be harvested, and several farmers had already planted citrus groves, principally oranges and grapefruit Land prices had risen at a dizzying pace, and today even unimproved land sold for nearly ten dollars an acre. It was a boom-time atmosphere, with no end in sight.
“It’ll break us!” Hill protested angrily. “We’re all strapped for cash and you ought to know it better’n anybody else. Hell, we’re just livin’ from hand to mouth till our first crop comes in, and that’s a fact. Valuation be damned!”
“Your worries are unfounded, Mr. Hill. The tax collector is an understanding man; I’m sure he’ll wait until your crops are sold.”
“Why, hell’s bells, any fool knows that. Only trouble is we’re obliged to sell our crops to you! Ain’t another cotton gin within a hundred miles of here.”
The farmers behind Hill muttered agreement, and there was something ominous in the looks they exchanged. Apparently they meant to force a showdown, and Kruger sensed that the true purpose of their visit hadn’t yet been revealed. But if he was apprehensive, nothing in his manner betrayed it. He spoke with authority, iron sureness.
“Gentlemen, let’s clear the air on something. I have more at stake than all of you put together, and if the farmers of Kruger County fail, then I fail. In the past, my dealings with you have been open and above-board”—he paused, staring directly at Hill—”and if you think that’s going to change in the future, then you’ve been misled by a rabble-rouser who hasn’t the vaguest notion of business or economics.”
“The hell you say!” Hill blurted. “You think we’re a bunch of dimdots? No, Kruger, we finally got your number, and it’s plain as a diamond in a goat’s ass.”
“Oh? Exactly what number is that, Mr. Hill?”
“You rigged the whole thing—start to finish—to keep the bite off Santa Guerra.”
“I presume you mean the elections?”
“Damn right! That and the tax assessments. Of course, I haven’t had any of your fancy book learnin’, but lemme tell you something, mister ... I’m pure lightning when it comes to figures.”
“Is that a fact?” Kruger replied genially. “And what great revelation have your figures unearthed?”
Hill gave him a bitter grin. “A little bird tells me that Santa Guerra got stiffed for less’n sixty thousand in taxes. The way I calculate, that breaks down to about five cents an acre,”
“I take it you find that inequitable.”
“No, Kruger, I find it plain old crooked. You and your goddamn greasers are gonna ruin us.”
By now, the politics of Kruger County were the talk of Texas. In last fall’s election Kruger and John Hazlett had voted their vaqueros in a block. The result was a landslide victory for their candidates, and a courthouse administration that governed Kruger County as though it were the private domain of one man. Since Kruger already controlled the economic lifeblood of Lairdsville, the elections gave him a virtual stranglehold on the county, absolute power to do as he pleased. He had handpicked his own legislators; he could deli
ver the county in statewide elections; and everyone in Austin considered him a political genius. It made him immune to outside interference.
The tax assessments, which had been distributed in early February, were the first overt demonstration of Kruger’s power. Until then everyone had looked upon him as a benign patriarch, hopeful he would govern the county with the same indulgence that he ruled Santa Guerra. Those hopes were quickly shattered, however, both for the farmers and the townspeople. The ranchlands of Santa Guerra, combined with those of John Hazlett, comprised roughly eighty percent of Kruger County’s total acreage. Yet it became apparent that the burden of taxation had been placed on small landowners, Lairdsville’s merchants and the farmers. Ernest Kruger’s intent was at last clear: the settlers were to be penalized for the benefit of the large ranchers.
The merchants, most of them politically astute, accepted the situation with a degree of fatalism. Since the gubernatorial election of 1908 was forthcoming—and Ernest Kruger could deliver the vote of an entire county—there was nothing to be gained in lodging an official protest. But the farmers were a stubborn lot, blind to the political realities, and not easily intimidated. The result was the Grangers Association, and a delegation headed by Lon Hill, waiting stolidly for Kruger’s response.
“Gentlemen,” Kruger finally observed, “my advice to you is to heed perhaps the oldest adage in politics. There’s no honey without stings.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Why, it’s really quite simple, Mr. Hill. You came here with little more than the shirt on your back, and now you own a prosperous farm. Moreover, at considerable personal expense, I provided your people with a church and a school, even a hospital.” He hesitated, regarding the farmers with a flat stare. “The rest you’ll have to pay for yourselves.”
Hill squinted at him in baffled fury. “The rest of what?”
“Oh, town improvements, maintenance, that sort of thing.”
“Spell it out, Kruger. What improvements?”
“Well, the courthouse has to be completed, and among other things we’re planning a town waterworks. Lairdsville’s growing, gentlemen. The people need services and facilities.”
“Waterworks? Why in the name of Christ should we pay for a waterworks? We’re farmers, we don’t live in town.”
“Civic pride, Mr. Hill. After all, it is your county seat.”
“Come off it, Kruger. What you’re really talking about is taxin’ the little people to run your county. We never voted on no courthouse, and we sure as hell never approved no waterworks.”
“Hmmm.” Kruger considered that a moment. “Well, if you have a grievance, I suggest you take it up with the county commissioners.”
“Don’t make me laugh! They’re all a bunch of stooges for you and your cronies, and everybody knows it. We’d just be wastin’ our breath.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you, gentlemen.”
“Goddamnit!” Hill shouted. “We won’t stand for it. You either call off your dogs or we’ll hotfoot it up to Austin and have a talk with the attorney general. See, we’re thickheaded, Kruger, but we ain’t stupid. We know a little law ourselves.”
“Yes, I can see you do. And what would the allegation be ... the charges?”
“How about the way you and Hazlett rigged the elections? Just so you could work out a tax scheme where you wouldn’t have to pay your fair share. That ought to do for openers.”
“Very unlikely, Mr. Hill. The tax program of Kruger County is structured on land valuation. Obviously a farm is more productive per acre than a ranch, and therefore more valuable. As a result, it merits higher assessment. All that seems rather elementary.”
“I got an idea the attorney general might see it different.”
Kruger nodded to a crank telephone fixed on the wall. “Suppose I call the governor and arrange an appointment. He’s a very good friend of mine, and I’m sure he’d be happy to speak to the attorney general on your behalf.”
Lon Hill’s chin came up, and his mouth set in a hard line. “Think you’ve got us euchred, don’t you? Well you haven’t heard the last of it, Kruger. Not by a damnsight!”
“Perhaps.” A wintry smile lighted Kruger’s eyes. “Let me give you another piece of advice, Mr. Hill. Never try to run a bluff when the other man holds your marker. You see, he’ll call and tap you out because he’s already playing on your money.”
“That sounds awful close to a threat.”
“Only to a man whose farm is heavily mortgaged.”
His statement claimed their attention like a thunderclap. The farmers stood transfixed, glowering at him in tongue-tied rage. However subtly couched, the threat was very real, and none of them dared put it to the test. At last, with a murderous oath, Lon Hill wheeled away from the desk and led them out of the bank.
Kruger rose, watching through the window until they crossed the street. Then he lifted the receiver from the wall phone and twirled the crank.
“Central? This is Mr. Kruger. Connect me with the governor’s office.”
Chapter 39
Hank stood alone at the end of the bar. After a few drinks, he’d ordered the barkeep to leave the bottle. He was sipping steadily, like a man intent on drowning his troubles, and his expression darkened as the level of the bottle crept lower. His elbows were hooked over the bar, shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on the glass. He hadn’t spoken in the last hour.
Several regulars were clustered near the front of the bar, and two men were shooting a game of one-pocket on the pool table at the rear of the room. Though it was still early, the domino tables along the far wall were empty and the saloon was quieter than normal. The conversation was low key, curiously strained, and the men at the bar kept darting hidden glances at Hank. He seldom frequented the saloon, but they knew him to be a solitary drinker and a mean drunk. Once he went past a certain limit, something brutal appeared along the square line of his jawbone, and he became unpredictable, easily offended. By now, he’d consumed almost half the bottle and his glassy-eyed stare had them worried.
The Longhorn Saloon was Lairdsville’s lone concession to the sporting crowd. Ernest Kruger, at the behest of the Merchants Association, had allowed the county commissioners to license one barroom in the whole of Kruger County. It was located on Main Street, but at the west end of town, only half a block from the railroad station. Travelers and salesmen were thus able to get a drink; townspeople and farmers had a meeting place where they could gather in a convivial atmosphere. But any similarity to a railhead saloon ended there. The owner of the Longhorn, as well as the general public, had been warned concerning barroom decorum. Any unseemly incidents, particularly fights or disorderly conduct, and the license would be revoked. As a result, the saloon’s clientele behaved themselves, and took a protective attitude toward the establishment. Troublemakers were hustled out the back door and unceremoniously dumped in the alley.
Yet tonight, the regular crowd was confronted with an altogether different problem. While Hank had never actually caused trouble in the Longhorn, he’d come close a couple of times. Watching him now, it seemed to them that tonight he might very well spoil the record. As the level dipped lower in his bottle, they grew quieter, their looks guarded. An altercation with the son of Ernest Kruger was a losing proposition all the way round. No one cared much for the prospect.
Hank was scarcely aware the men existed. Earlier, he’d ridden into town, intending to catch the train that evening and spend a few days in Matamoros. By the time he reached the depot, however, the idea had lost its appeal. His mood was bleak, and even the thought of cockfights and senoritas did little to raise his spirits. There was simply nothing to celebrate. Instead, he’d left his horse hitched outside the train station and walked over to the Longhorn.
For three hours now, he had been working on the bottle. His senses were dulled, and his tongue felt n
umb, but his mind still functioned perfectly. As he poured another drink, it occurred to him that it was a terrible waste of good whiskey. He lifted the glass, studying the amber liquid a moment, wondering why a man intent on getting drunk so very often developed a hollow leg. It was a paradox, and a damn shame. Normally, carrying such a load, he would have had the blind staggers. Tonight, with half a bottle gone, he had yet to outdistance reason or thought ... or Becky.
His fist clenched around the glass, and he slowly lowered it to the bar. Perhaps there was no way to outrun her. Even if it were possible, he told himself, maybe he wasn’t really all that determined anyway. Maybe that was the reason whiskey no longer worked and why he’d lost his appetite for other women. Instead of outrunning her, maybe he was really waiting to be caught, fooling himself into believing otherwise. It answered a lot of questions, but the thought was damned unsettling, even a little scary. He shook his head, pondering on it, thoroughly confused.
Some four months had passed since the night Becky slipped into his bed. Yet it was as though it had all happened only hours ago. He could still feel the soft contours of her body, and in his mind’s eye there was a vivid picture of her nakedness framed in a spill of moonlight. He ached for her, wanted her desperately, and time had done nothing to diminish his need. Whenever they were together the ache grew worse; merely to be near her was an exquisite form of torture. Even now, he could close his eyes and see her spread beneath him, feel again the touch of her hands and the warmth of her flesh. The image, that uncanny sensation of her hand gripping his hardness, was slowly driving him mad. Awake, he thought of it; and asleep, he relived it in his dreams. Try as he might, he couldn’t forget. There was no escaping the promise of those moments, the vision of her loveliness.
