The Baron Range

by Jory Sherman

  “It ain’t your fault, Daddy,” Anson said. He glanced at the grisly corpse, then turned away.

  “Cullers did this?” Martin asked Juanito.

  “I think so, from what he tells me,” Juanito said, nodding toward Dan Jones. “He says the rowboat belongs to Cullers. And those thieving bastards sailed away in the Mary E, smooth as can be.”

  “That’s right,” Jones said as he lowered the lantern some. “I seen Cullers and a couple other fellers rowin’ out there to the Mary E, and then we heard a shot. I thought they was goin’ out to help Winfield, but I guess that ain’t what they had in mind.”

  “No, I guess not,” Martin said.

  “Now, I’ll never get these damned vegetables to market,” Jones complained.

  Martin ignored him and turned to Juanito. “I knew Cullers was trouble when we saw him at the tavern earlier, but I didn’t think things would end this way for poor Jerry.”

  “He was happy with the boat,” Juanito said. “Too bad he did not have a chance to enjoy it.”

  “What’re you going to do now, Daddy?” Anson asked.

  “I’m not sure yet, son.”

  “I mean, we’ll be going home now, won’t we?”

  “No,” Martin snapped. “We’re going after Cullers.”

  “Well, you came here to sell the boat and you did that. You got the money for it and you sure can’t do nothing to bring Mr. Winfield back to life.”

  “No, I can’t, but I can do right by him by going after his killers and getting the Mary E back. You’re just too young to understand, Anson.”

  “But—but Mother needs you.”

  “Your ma don’t need me. She’s got folks there to help her. If you want to go back to the ranch to be with your ma, then ride on back. I got things I need to do.”

  “But she wants us there, both of us, I know she does,” Anson pleaded.

  “Anson, I’m not going back home,” Martin said sharply. “Someday, when you grow up, you’ll understand such things.”

  Anson felt like he’d been slapped across the face. “I am grown up,” he muttered, then turned and walked a few steps away, staying well within the dim light of the lantern. He barely listened to his father and Juanito discussing their plans. He was trying to deal with the conflicts in his mind. He desperately wanted to go home, where he’d be safe, and yet he knew his father was right in his decision to go after Winfield’s killers and to try to get the Mary E back, and Anson wanted to be a part of it. He wanted to show his father that he was not a boy anymore.

  He heard his father tell Juanito that he would arrange for a proper burial for Jerry, and then his father turned and headed back to the hotel.

  “You okay?” Juanito asked Anson.

  “Yes.”

  “Your father must do what he feels is right in his heart.”

  “I understand. He couldn’t live with himself if he let Cullers get away with what he’s done.”

  “I think you do understand.”

  “Juanito, my father really doesn’t want to go home to my mother, does he?”

  “Not right now. You know there has been trouble between him and your mother. It has been going on for a long time.”

  “Why?”

  “She is carrying his child and sometimes that makes a woman lose her footing. She wants your father’s shoulder to lean on.”

  “Well, he can’t be there all the time. She should understand that.”

  “I am sure that she does, Anson. That is the way it is with women. They do not want to feel abandoned, especially when they are with child.”

  “Carlos and the other women are there.”

  “I think your father wants me to act as an emissary.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A messenger of goodwill. He will want me to smooth things over between them before he returns.”

  “Oh, I see. I think,” Anson said.

  “Do not worry about it. Your father will see to your safety. If there is killing to do, he will do it.”

  “I thought he wasn’t going to kill anybody,” Anson said.

  Juanito looked pensive. “Maybe he will not.”

  “But you think he will.”

  “I do not know. That is between him and what we call his conscience.”

  “You don’t think it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Who can say?” Juanito said. “If Cullers does not want to fight, perhaps it will end that way.”

  “Cullers looked pretty mean to me when I saw him.”

  “It is one thing to look mean in a crowded place with friends around you. What will he look like when he is facing death all alone?” Juanito looked very intensely into Anson’s eyes. Anson got the queer feeling that Juanito was talking about him, not Cullers.

  18

  JUANITO RODE WITH Martin and Anson as far as Freeport. Martin checked at the port to see if Cullers had put in there. No one had seen him, nor the Mary E.

  “It’s best we part company here, Juanito,” Martin said. “You ride overland to Baronsville. Stop there before you go on to the ranch. Tell Ken Richman to bring fresh horses and half a dozen men to the Matagorda. Plenty of powder and ball, too.”

  “It is not much farther to the Matagorda,” Juanito said. “I could ride with you that far and then on to Baronsville.”

  “No, I want you to make time. I may need Ken. Tell him to bring the barber.”

  It was a chilling order to Juanito. Ken Richman had practically built the town of Baronsville by himself. He had attracted the merchants, the townsmen, and had laid out the city. He had become mayor with Martin’s blessing. The barber, a man named Jim Shepherd, was also the surgeon.

  “It is a long ride from Baronsville to the Matagorda,” Juanito said. “Not so far from here to the Matagorda.”

  “I don’t want you to ride along the coast. Don’t go into Corpus Christi. Right straight to Baronsville, then to the ranch. Claro?” Martin’s tone of voice left no doubt that he wanted no argument from Juanito.

  “Claro,” Juanito said. “Vaya con Dios.”

  Anson watched Juanito ride away from the small town on the coast. “There he goes, Daddy.”

  “I know it. Damn it. Juanito always thinks he knows what’s best.”

  “But he doesn’t?”

  “No, he damn well doesn’t. Come on. Cullers may be in Matagorda now and we might catch him before he leaves port.”

  “How long does it take to sail down there from Galveston?” Anson asked.

  “Less than a day with a good wind. Cullers left port last night. He would have made it there by the dawn’s light.”

  “And what do you think he will do?”

  “If he’s a pirate, he’ll stock up on munitions and grub and take to the sea again, probably work up around New Orleans. If he’s just a thief, he’ll probably try and sell the boat there.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “He’s got the damned papers. He can fix them up so it looks like he bought the boat, not Jerry.”

  “What if he doesn’t sell the boat and you catch him?”

  “I guess I’ll have my boat back.”

  “Will you try to sell it again?”

  “I don’t know, Anson. I just don’t know.”

  Anson saw a shadow cross his father’s face and knew that he had touched on a delicate and uncomfortable subject. Martin had sold the boat to Jerry Winfield and now there was blood on it. He was beginning to understand why his father wanted to get Cullers. It was more than the murder, it was the theft of the Mary E. He had not known how much his father loved the boat until they had sailed out from Matagorda and he saw the loving care he took of the Mary E.

  As they rode away from Freeport, over the coastal plain, Anson thought about the Mary E almost constantly and the boat grew bigger in his mind until it was all out of proportion to its true size. He hoped they would see it again, anchored off Matagorda or somewhere along the beautiful peninsula that floated like an island in the sun.

&nbs
p; They passed Mexicans, their burros pulling little carts along the road, heading for Galveston, and some going the other way, toward Corpus Christi. Martin stopped each one coming from the southwest and inquired about the Mary E, asking if they had seen it sail into the Matagorda. None of the Mexicans had seen such a ship, they assured him.

  They did not stop until they reached Matagorda, and it was dark when they rode into the little settlement. There was no sign of the Mary E and Martin said it was too late to ride out to the peninsula. They bought tortillas, carne and frijoles off of one of the street vendors and made camp atop a small hill at the edge of the village.

  “How’s the food?” Martin asked his son after eating several bites of his own.

  “Good. Full of sand, though,” Anson replied.

  “Less chewing.”

  Anson laughed. The wind was blowing sand at their campsite, the moon was rising through scattered white clouds in the sky. It felt good to get out of the saddle and he was glad his father had decided to wait until morning before returning to the search for Sam Cullers. The horses were ground-tied a few yards away, feeding on corn in their morrals.

  When they had finished eating, Martin took out his pipe, filled it with tobacco and lit it. He sat back against his saddle and smoked.

  “Daddy, what will you do when you find Cullers?” Anson asked. “Will you shoot him?”

  “I don’t know, son. Give him a chance to surrender peaceably, I reckon.”

  “What if he wants to fight?”

  “Well, we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “Will you try to kill him?”

  “That’s up to him. Why?”

  “I just don’t want anything to happen to you, that’s all.”

  “There’s always that chance.” Martin thought back to the time when his family was attacked by Shawnees. His mother was killed in the first attack. His father, badly wounded, took a long time to die. After he buried his parents, Martin set out after the marauding Indians. He caught up to them and killed them. But there was little satisfaction in taking another’s life in revenge. “I hope it won’t come to that, Anson,” he said. “It is not easy to kill a man. And if you do, you have to live with it the rest of your life.”

  “I hope you don’t have to kill anybody, Daddy,” Anson said.

  “Better get some sleep, Anson. I want to get an early start in the morning.”

  “I ain’t sleepy.”

  “I’m not sleepy.”

  “I’m not sleepy.”

  “Go to sleep anyway. I’ll keep watch and wake you up to take over.”

  “You think somebody’ll come way up here?”

  “There’s always that chance. A lot of people down there saw us ride up.”

  “I’ll go to sleep,” Anson said, and spread out his blankets. He lay down and looked up at the stars until they began swimming around in small circles. When he closed his eyes, he fell fast asleep.

  19

  WHEN HIS FATHER awakened him, Anson thought it was time for him to take over the watch, but it was already getting light out.

  “Did you stay up all night, Daddy?”

  “Most of it. I dozed.”

  “You should have got me up.”

  “It might be a big day. You need more sleep than I do.”

  “Did you see anything?” Anson asked.

  “An armadillo, an owl and seagulls. Hungry?”

  “I could eat a horse.”

  “We’d better save the horses. We might need them.”

  Anson laughed.

  “Let’s saddle up and get something to eat,” Martin said.

  A few moments later, they rode into the settlement which was just barely waking up. A few lanterns shone in the shanties. They found a small cafe, hitched the horses to the rings anchored to small cement mounds out front. The weathered sign over the shanty read: LA FONDA DEL MAR.

  The two men sat at a table near the front window. There was a small counter where some fishermen sat. The room was full of the smell of cooking meat and beans, the aroma of hot tortillas and seafood. The counter and kitchen was manned by a short, heavyset Mexican, who waddled out to their table and handed them a single slate scrawled with Spanish words chalked on it.

  Martin ordered in Spanish for both of them: huevos, tortillas, café and biftec. He also asked the cook his name.

  “I am called Gonzalo,” the man said in Spanish.

  In a low voice, Martin asked him, “Do you know a man named Cullers? Sam Cullers?”

  “He does not come in here no more,” Gonzalo said in English. “I throw him out.”

  “Have you seen him? Yesterday, perhaps?”

  “I have not seen him,” Gonzalo said, and his tone turned surly. “I will bring you the coffee and cook for you the breakfast.”

  One of the men at the counter turned and looked over at Martin. He was a swarthy Mexican, wearing a tattered straw hat, sandals, loose trousers and a dirty white shirt. He studied Martin for a long moment, then pushed away from the counter and walked over.

  “I know you, senor,” he said. “I have seen you in port many times. You keep your boat here. It is the Mary E.”

  “I sold the boat two nights ago in Galveston.”

  “Ah, I was thinking about that when I saw the Mary E sail in yesterday. In the morning.”

  “Sit down,” Martin said. “I am Martin Baron and this is my son, Anson.”

  “I know your name. I do not know your son. I have not seen him before. I am called Pedro the Pescador. It is a name that identifies me. I am a fisherman.”

  “I have seen you before, too,” Martin said. “You have a small boat and you fish with bare line in the deep water.”

  Pedro laughed. “That is me. I catch many kilos of fish.”

  “You say you saw my boat come in. Did you see who was on it?”

  “Oh, yes. I know the men who were on it, but I did not think you would sell to such a man as Sam Cullers.”

  “I didn’t sell it to him. He stole it.”

  “Ah, then, that explains.”

  “Explains what?” Martin asked.

  “Last night Cullers, Hoxie and another man, Lars Swenson, brought the little boat to the docks and tried to sell the Mary E. But nobody would buy it because they do not trust Cullers. Cullers and his friends got very drunk and killed a man in Rosa’s Cantina. The others who live here got angry and chased Cullers and his friends out and smashed up their little boat.”

  “The Mary E or the dinghy?” Martin asked.

  “The little boat, the dinghy. Cullers stole three horses and they rode away with men chasing them with knives and clubs.”

  “Where did Cullers and his men go?” Martin asked tightly.

  Pedro shrugged. “They rode toward Corpus Christi on the road. Some men got horses and rode after them, but they lost them.”

  “So they are not going to Corpus Christi?” Martin asked.

  “I do not think so. They took the road to San Antonio de Bexar.”

  “Now tell me what the horses that Cullers stole looked like and what brands they were wearing.”

  “They all carry the Circle B brand,” Pedro said. “One gray gelding, two black geldings, one with a blaze face, the other with four white stockings. There is a reward for them. They belong to J. B. Bowers, who has a rancho in Nueces. They were brought in by a man I do not know, who said Bowers wanted to sell them.”

  “That all?” Martin asked.

  “This man with the Circle B horses. He is just a kid. And he rode after Cullers.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes. But he had two pistols and a rifle with him. He was riding a tall black horse, much too big for him.”

  “And you do not know his name?”

  “It is a funny name. I do not remember it. But he was a gringo.”

  “How old was he, Pedro?”

  “I think he said he was but fifteen. He brought five horses for auction and three of them were stolen before that
happened.”

  Martin let out a sigh. He looked at his son. “Are you real hungry, Anson? I’d like to get after them.”

  “No. We’ve got jerky and hardtack. We can eat on the ride.”

  “Good,” Martin said, relieved. “Pedro, do you want to make a little money?”

  “I always like to make the money. How little?”

  “I’ll pay you to watch after the Mary E. If a man comes here by the name of Ken Richman, you tell him what happened. Tell him I’m going after the man who killed a friend of mine.”

  “The man who was killed last night was a friend of mine, too,” Pedro said. “His name was Carlos Gemelo. I will do this thing for you, Señor Baron. Will you pay me before you go?”

  Martin laughed and gave Pedro some bills. The fisherman looked at them and smiled. “I will watch your boat and clean it for this much money.”

  “I’m much obliged, Pedro, but do not clean anything. Leave the boat just like it is.” Martin left money on the table for Gonzalo and called to the man as they left. “Give the breakfasts to any man who’s hungry, Gonzalo. We’re leaving.”

  Gonzalo smiled and waved at them as they went out the door.

  Martin rode down to the bay with Anson. “I just want to see if she’s there before we go after Cullers,” he said.

  They saw the smashed dinghy still tied to the dock, holes in its hull. It floated just beneath the water, sadly ruptured. Martin and Anson looked out into the harbor of Matagorda and there was the Mary E at anchor, as they had last seen it in Galveston.

  Anson thought the boat looked so peaceful floating there, anchored fore and aft, with no sign of the horror that had happened aboard not so long ago.

  20

  MICKEY BONE RODE through the desolate wasteland of Mexico, a harsh desert country strewn with rocks and cactus and rattlesnakes. He followed no tracks, rode no trail but dim memory. Small rocky buttes jutted from the featureless plain like cairns erected by some mysterious nomadic people. He rode by memory and into memory as the sun blazed down on him. He rode past dry water holes and alkali bowls, cracked and scarred lake beds that had not held water for many lifetimes.

  He remembered his people, the Lipan Apache, wanderers, doomed to skulk in regions where no others dared live, outcasts from places even the elders could not recall, living on lizards and snakes and cacti and the roots of plants.