Lords of the Land

by Braun, Matt;

  He returned for the second can and stepped onto the veranda. Walking the length of the house, he soaked the front wall, swinging the can high in order to splash the eaves beneath the porch roof. Then he doused the veranda itself and backed down the steps, carefully spilling a trail of kerosene several yards into the driveway. He set the can down, dug a kitchen match from his shirt pocket, and dropped to one knee.

  His thumbnail raked the head of the match.

  Crossing the compound, Hank saw the flare of a match followed instantly by a thin streamer of fire running toward the house. For a moment it made no sense; his wits deserted him and he stood watching as the streamer leaped up the steps, crossed the veranda, and hit the door. Then the front of the house suddenly ignited and a second later the entire bottom floor exploded in a holocaust of flame.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Hank saw a man standing in the driveway, calmly watching the house burn. A name flashed through his mind—Wendell Jackson—then his attention was diverted by vaqueros racing across the compound in their nightclothes. He started toward them, shouting orders to form a bucket brigade, but the vaqueros were screaming and pointing upward, their faces etched with horror. Hank whirled around, caught his breath in a sharp gasp, and froze.

  The fire had spread rapidly, fueled by the dry tinderbox of the old foundation, and the upper floor was now in flames. Ernest Kruger had smashed a bedroom window, and was assisting his wife through the opening, on the verge of pushing her to safety. Suddenly the upper story caught with a roaring whoosh and a solid wall of fire forced them back from the window. Then tongues of flame leaped to the roof, and Kruger pulled Trudy into the hall, leading her toward the stairway. Smoke billowed through the window and they were lost from view.

  By now the compound was jammed with Los Lerdenos, but the intensity of the fire kept them at a distance. Hank stood apart, shielding his face with his arms, edging ever closer to the house. The front door had disintegrated and his eyes were fixed on the stairwell in the ground-floor hallway. Screams suddenly pierced the night, swept back over the crowd in cries of terror, and in that instant Kruger appeared on the stairs, followed closely by Trudy. The inside of the house was a raging inferno, with drapes and wallpaper and furniture quickly being consumed by the blaze. Kruger tried to reach the front door, but the flames again drove him back, and he retreated with Trudy into the hallway.

  Hank shouted and waved, urging them to make another try, watching flames advance on them from all sides. Then he suddenly broke, crazed with fear, and ran toward the house. The veranda collapsed as he mounted the steps, peppering him with firebrands and sparks; he stumbled, reeling backward, spun around by a sheet of fire. Luis Morado and several vaqueros darted from the crowd, threw him to the ground, began pounding at his smoldering clothes. He levered himself upright and brushed them aside, started back toward the house. The men jumped him and he began punching and kicking, struggling to break loose. The scuffle lasted only a moment, and then, so abruptly they fell away, he stopped, went rigid. His mouth opened and a bestial moan rose shrill above the crackling flames.

  Trudy and Kruger stood trapped in the hallway, locked in each other’s arms. Her gown was ablaze and Kruger seemed to be talking to her, looking directly into her eyes. Her expression was composed, and even when his nightshirt burst into flames, neither of them lost control. Then her hair caught fire, and for an instant her head was framed in a luminous glow. Her features turned molten, began to melt, and as Kruger pulled her closer the heat fused them together, his own head wreathed in a florid incandescence. Mercifully, their ordeal ended in a volcanic roar.

  The wall buckled and the house settled inward upon itself. Then the roof collapsed, demolishing the upper floor, and crashed downward in a thunderous firestorm. Cinders and sparks leaped skyward, and a searing blast of heat hurtled across the compound. Tongues of flame lapped at the rubble, and fiery timbers flashed a brilliant orange, consumed within the smoky pyre. There was one last flare, lighting the night, then the ruins leveled in a glowing bed of coals. A gentle wind fanned the embers, and with it came the faint stench of burnt flesh.

  An eerie hush fell over the compound. Los Lerdenos stood like rows of bronzed sculpture, staring at the rubble, shocked beyond speech, their emotions blunted. Hank’s eyes were glazed, and his look was one of tragic disbelief. He seemed rooted to the ground, and his gaze was riveted on the spot where his parents had perished, almost as though he expected them to rise, miraculously unscathed, and walk from the smoldering ruins. Yet nothing moved, and silence turned to stillness, deathly quiet.

  At the edge of the crowd, Luis Morado stood with head bowed, tears streaming down his face. His thoughts were confused and disoriented, vivid flashes of times past jarred by the horror of flames. He saw Trudy as a young girl, splashing joyfully in the old swimming hole, remembered her wild recklessness and her beauty and her love for Roberto. Yet the image was fleeting, turned quickly to fire and seared flesh, that last glimpse of La Madama in flames, burned alive. He shook his head, blinked and brushed away the tears, unable to bear the thought of her, the memories. His eyes went to the patron, standing alone in the stillness, alone and desolate. He suddenly realized his own grief was nothing and he started forward. His features softened, arm stretched out, reaching for the patron and ...

  A crazed laugh splintered the night. It went on and on, the gibberty laugh of a loon in darkened woods, bloodcurdling and somehow maniacal. Hank whirled toward the driveway. His eyes fastened on Wendell Jackson, forgotten during the horror of the fire. He started forward, and an ominous murmur swept back over Los Lerdenos. Several vaqueros, led by Luis Morado, rushed to join him, but he waved them aside, advancing on the farmer at a measured pace. Jackson’s laugh rose higher, oddly discordant, crested in an earsplitting shriek of madness. He took no notice whatever of Los Lerdenos, nor did his expression change when Hank halted in front of him. He seemed mesmerized by the glowing bed of coals.

  Hank hit him. A wild and devastating rage went into the blow, and Hank swung again and still again, split the farmer’s eyebrow, heard the jawbone crack under his fist. Jackson blinked, rocked by the blows, but he didn’t fall. Nor did he see Hank. He chuckled lightly and flashed a mouthful of brownish teeth. His gaze was still fixed on the rubble.

  Fist cocked, ready to strike again, Hank hesitated, slowly lowered his arm. He took a step closer, looked straight into Jackson’s eyes. He found nothing there, only the blank emptiness of a man whose mind was gone, reason destroyed. Several moments passed while he debated killing Jackson anyway, then his rage began to fade, dulled by the hollow stare. He finally got a grip on himself and backed away, his mouth set in a grim line. As he turned toward Los Lerdenos, there was a silver flash in the glare of the fiery rubble. A swift whistling sound split the air, followed an instant later by the soft chunk of metal striking flesh and bone. Behind him, Hank heard a harsh grunt, and he whirled around.

  Wendell Jackson looked surprised, the dull stare gone from his eyes. A broad-bladed saca tripas, the knife carried by all vaqueros, was buried to the hilt in his chest. He stood stockstill, alert now and fully aware, his gaze fixed on someone in the crowd. Then he smiled and a trickle of blood leaked out of his mouth. His grin became a wet chuckle, as though he were amused by a joke known only to himself, and he threw back his head, laughed louder. Suddenly he choked, the laugh broken by a strangled cough, and vomited a great gout of blood down across his chest. His eyeballs rolled back in his head, ghostly white sockets, and his knees collapsed. He dropped dead.

  Hank stared down at the body for a long while. Then he seemed to collect himself, and turned to face Los Lerdenos. Gathered in a tight wedge, they regarded him without expression, their features hard and stoic. His gaze roved through the crowd, settled on Luis Morado, waited. The segundo met his look, held it for a time, then nodded once and lifted his chin with a faint smile of pride. Something unspoken passed between them, a private thing, r
esolved without words yet understood by all of Los Lerdenos. Hank nodded and walked away.

  “Someone ride for the sheriff.”

  Chapter 44

  Becky was waiting when he came out of the courthouse. His expression betrayed nothing, but she could tell he was surprised by the size of the crowd. There was a slight hesitation before he descended the steps; his eyes swept the throng of farmers and townspeople gathered on the courthouse lawn. Then she went to meet him, hands outstretched, and he hurried down the last few steps. She put on a brave smile.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, just a little tired.”

  “What happened? Are they going to press charges?”

  Hank winced, avoided her gaze. “How’d you find out?”

  “Darling, the whole town knows.”

  “All of it ... Jackson and the boy, too?”

  Becky nodded. “Someone in the sheriff’s office has a big mouth. People started gathering here before daylight.”

  “Wondered about that.” Hank glanced past her at the crowd. “From the turnout, I guess most of them figure I ought to be lynched.”

  “Who cares what they think? The important thing is what the county prosecutor thinks.”

  “Let’s save it till later.” Hank took her arm. “It’s a long story, and I’ve seen enough of this place for one night.”

  His eyes were sunken with fatigue, and he still wore the singed, soot-encrusted clothes he’d had on last night. Beside him, Becky looked like a subdued butterfly. Her dress was black, simple and stark, with an amethyst brooch at the throat and a brimmed black hat. She squeezed his arm, chin lifted proudly, and turned to face the crowd. As they started down the walkway, Lon Hill separated from a group of farmers and walked toward them. He halted, blocking their path, and a chilled silence fell over the courthouse lawn.

  “Kruger.” Hill bobbed his head. “Miss Hazlett.”

  “What can I do for you, Hill?”

  “Well, first off, I’d like to offer my condolences about your folks. Your pa and me never got along too well, but I would’ve preferred it hadn’t ended like this.”

  “Thank you.” Hank’s features softened. “Under the circumstances, I’m obliged you feel that way.”

  “Tell you the truth, I sorta feel like it’s my fault. I should’ve kept a closer watch on Wendell, but it just never dawned on me he’d go that far.”

  “No, don’t blame yourself. If I’d handled it right—you know, about Jackson and his boy—none of this would have happened. It’s my fault for not reporting it the night we ... jumped them.”

  “You started to, didn’t you?” Hank gave him a startled look, and he went on. “That night, when you rode into town, you were gonna report it to the sheriff, weren’t you?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Nobody had to tell me. Guessed it for myself after we braced your pa yesterday mornin’.” Hill paused, considering. “You’ve got a rough way about you, but I always took you to be an honest man. Figured if you was gonna try to hide it, you wouldn’t’ve come into town at all, especially to see your pa.”

  Hank swallowed, glanced away. “Wish I hadn’t now. There was a light in the bank and it seemed the natural thing ...”

  His voice trailed off in an uncomfortable silence. Becky hugged his arm, but he continued to stare into the distance, eyes filled with regret. After a time Hill cleared his throat, nodded toward the courthouse.

  “Any idea what they aim to do about Wendell?”

  “Nothing.” Hank looked him straight in the eye. “It was ruled justifiable homicide.”

  “Pretty fancy term for a fellow that gets himself stabbed to death.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so. But then, I reckon you would’ve killed him too ... under the same circumstances.”

  “You didn’t kill him,” Hill observed. “No need to tell me different either.”

  “Oh? What makes you so sure?”

  “A knife ain’t your sort of weapon. You might beat a man to death—and I understand Wendell was busted up pretty bad—but a knife just ain’t your style. No, I’d say it was one of your greasers. Like as not, one of ‘em put that pigsticker in Wendell after you got through workin’ him over.”

  “You’d have a hard time proving that, Hill.”

  “Think so?”

  “I’d bet money on it.”

  “Now it’s you that sounds awful sure of yourself.”

  “Well, there’s better than five hundred vaqueros on Santa Guerra. Unless you’ve got a crystal ball, it’d be damn hard to prove your point.”

  “Tell you the truth, I never had no intention of tryin’ to prove it.”

  Hank frowned, watching him. “I don’t follow you.”

  “Nothin’ to follow, not really. It’s like you said a minute ago. I’d have killed him myself ... under the same circumstances.”

  “I wish to God—” Hank faltered, looked down at the sidewalk. “I’m sorry it happened, Hill, sorry for the whole mess. Especially the boy ... and his father ... the way I handled it.”

  There was a moment of weighing, deliberation, before Hill spoke. “You figure they’ll bring charges?”

  Hank shrugged. “That’s up to the grand jury. It was self-defense, but the county prosecutor says I’m still open to charges of conspiracy.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry about that too much if I was you. We done talked it over, and everybody agreed—what with the fire and all—that it pretty much settles the account.”

  Hill pulled at his earlobe, thoughtful. “Way things worked out, I guess we’ve all suffered more’n we deserve. ‘Course that’s the trouble with life, ain’t it? Hindsight don’t change a thing, and most times it don’t teach us nothin’ either. Seems like the Good Lord in all his wisdom would’ve made it the other way round.”

  Hank stared at him a long time, finally drew a deep breath. “Mr. Hill, I can’t change what’s happened, and most likely I won’t change the way I feel about farmers or posting my land or any of the rest of it. But there’s one thing I can promise you. From now on, Kruger County will be run on the up and up. Come election time, your candidates are welcome on Santa Guerra, and if they can convince my people to vote your way, then I’ll just have to learn to live with it.” He hesitated, fixed the other man with a level gaze. “I won’t help you, but you’ve got my word I’ll stay the hell out of politics.”

  “I think that’s what folks call friendly adversaries, Mr. Kruger. Not that it’ll satisfy everybody, you understand, but it’s good enough for me.”

  Lon Hill stuck out his hand and Hank shook it. Then the farmer stepped aside and he led Becky down the walkway. The crowd parted to let them through, watching in silence as they walked to the street and climbed into the Pierce-Arrow. Hank started the motor and drove west out of town, toward Santa Guerra.

  The sun dipped lower, smothering in a bed of copper, as they drove into the compound. All that remained of the house was ashes and debris, with the chimney rising like a charred monolith against the plains sky. There was an acid tang of smoke in the air and a sense of desolation pervaded the compound. Work had come to a standstill, and the few vaqueros in sight quickly removed their sombreros, heads bowed in mourning.

  Hank brought the car to a halt and killed the motor. On the ride out from town there had been little conversation, and not a word concerning the fire or his parents. He seemed to have withdrawn inside himself, nursing the pain and hurt like some wounded creature burrowed deep in its hiding place. But now, watching his face, Becky saw at last the enormity of his sorrow. Staring at the ruins, his eyes suddenly glistened and an expression of unbearable grief spread across his features. She touched his arm, but he turned away, quickly opening the door, and walked to the front of the car.

  A long while passed as he stood gazing at the chimney. He felt a devastating lon
eliness, and all at once a frightful agony of despair mounted within him, became violently physical, left him chilled and his forehead beaded with sweat. Unbidden, those last moments materialized before him, and he saw again the blazing inferno, watched his father speaking calmly, without fear or panic, as the flames engulfed them, and his mother. ...

  She had spoken!

  In that final instant, with her hair ablaze and her features like clotted wax, she had spoken to his father. He forced himself to concentrate, looked deep within his mind’s eye, trying desperately to see her lips. All the pain and anguish, the horror of watching them burn was suddenly transcended, somehow blocked out, and he saw her lips move. He stared hard, brushing aside images of flame and the smell of seared flesh, willing himself to grasp her words ... to hear.

  Then it was clear, the words formed on her lips, and he knew.

  Slowly it drifted away, bright images faintly dimmed and lost, then it was gone. He shuddered, felt the touch of a hand on his arm, and turned away at last from death. Becky was watching him closely, her eyes troubled and bemused.

  “Darling, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. Not now, anyway.”

  “But you’re white as a sheet”—Becky wiped his forehead, gently smoothed his hair—”and you’re soaked. Do you feel feverish?”

  “No, it was something worse than that.”

  “Worse than what? I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I guess I was feeling sorry for myself. Got to wallowing around in all that self-pity and couldn’t even see ...”

  He faltered, and Becky took his hand, brushed it with her lips. “Sweetheart, please, won’t you tell me—see what?”