The Baron Range

by Jory Sherman

  “What is her name?” Bone asked, still in a stupor.

  “Her name? The old women call her all kinds of names.”

  “But she must have a name. Her own name.” He struggled with the unfamiliar words in the Apache tongue. “Her Yaqui name.”

  “She was called Starling by her people. We call her Magpie. She has only fifteen or sixteen summers. She says bad words to the old women who keep her.”

  “I wonder,” Bone said, “if she would say bad words to me.”

  “Put her out of your mind,” Big Rat said. “Come, I want you to meet your new family.”

  But Bone could not keep Starling out of his mind. He knew then for certain that she would be his wife, and he did not care that she was a Yaqui. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  And he knew that Starling was the reason he had come back to his people. She was the thing that was missing in his heart. She was the one who would give him back his spirit.

  24

  It WAS ALMOST dusk when Martin and Anson came upon the hanging man. The shadows had thickened in the trees and clumps of cactus, and the glow in the sky was fading like embers in a dying campfire. It was almost too dark to see, but the hanged man stood out in bold silhouette against the pale sky, dangling from a tree in the center of a small clearing. He turned slowly in the slight breeze and it was that movement that had caught Martin’s eye.

  “What is it?” Anson asked when he rode up. Martin had reined in his horse and was looking at the dead man. But as Anson looked closely, he knew what it was. He gulped down a swallow of air and grew light-headed even as his stomach wrenched in his belly. “Gawdamighty,” he breathed.

  “Looks like someone done did him a cottonwood blossom,” Martin said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s an expression I heard once. When they hang a man, they usually do it from a cottonwood tree. That there’s just a mesquite.”

  “Is—is he dead?”

  “I reckon he’s dead.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Let’s see if we can find out. It ain’t no little guy, though.”

  “Look, Daddy,” Anson exclaimed as they rode closer to the mesquite tree. “There’s something white on his shirt, like a piece of paper.”

  “It is a piece of paper, I reckon,” Martin said. The horses balked at riding up to the dead man, whose hands were tied behind his back with a short piece of rope. Martin and his son brought their mounts under control and rode warily up to the hanging man. Martin reached up and pulled off the note stuck to the man’s shirt by a stick whittled at both ends until it was like a crude darning needle.

  “What does it say?” Anson asked.

  “Take a look,” Martin said, handing the note to his son.

  Anson read it quickly. The note read: KILT FOR STEELING HORSES. A chill ran up his spine. The way it prickled, he felt as if he had rolled in cholla. He looked at the dead man as his father pulled one of his trouser legs up and felt the leg.

  “Still warm,” Martin said. “Not stiff yet.” He let the pants leg back down. One of the man’s feet gave a little kick.

  Anson jumped back in his saddle. “Gawdamighty, Daddy, he’s still alive,” he said.

  “No, he’s deader’n a stump,” Martin said. “Just a dead man’s kick, that’s all. He might twitch like that for a long time until he’s stiffened up.”

  Anson forced himself to look up at the dead man’s face. It hung at a grotesque angle. A huge knot, wound tight, nestled at the corpse’s ear. His face was purple, with a large swollen lump on one cheek, and his nose appeared to have been broken, the eyes battered and closed—almost peacefully, he thought. Anson smelled the stench of the man. “He’s gone in his pants,” Anson said.

  “There’s a muscle that loosens up when a man dies,” Martin said. “Makes him void what he’s got in his innards.”

  “God, it’s awful,” Anson said.

  “I reckon this to be Swenson. He’s big, bigger than Cullers. Could be Hoxie, I guess. But he’s got blond hair and looks like he might be a Swede.”

  “What’s a Swede?” Anson asked.

  “From Sweden. It don’t make no difference. That little feller caught up with him and made him dance at the end of that rope. Something curious, too.”

  “What?” Anson asked in a slightly tremulous voice.

  “Look how that rope’s cut off. He used a long rope and after Swenson died, he reached up and cut it off.”

  “What does that mean?” Anson asked.

  “I reckon he means to hang them others when he catches up to them.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “That’s the law, son. If you catch a horse thief, you hang him.”

  “But …”

  Martin rode away from the dangling man, began looking at the ground for tracks as the dusk deepened. They heard the cry of a whippoorwill and the frogs started croaking.

  Anson took one last look at the dead man and fought off the chill. He looked around at the light from the gathering dusk.

  “It’s awful spooky here, Daddy,” Anson said.

  “Look at these tracks, Anson. Looks like the little feller got ahead of Swenson and waited for him. He knocked him off his horse and fought him, man to man. Look at all those scuff marks. You can see where the little man on the big horse waited for Swenson. He didn’t shoot him, which could mean a couple of things.”

  “Like what?” Anson asked.

  “Maybe Cullers and Hoxie were nearby.”

  “What else?”

  “The little feller might have wanted Swenson to suffer some.”

  Anson thought about that. He wondered what Swenson’s last minutes of life were like for him. What was it like to hang? To strangle slowly, unable to breathe and fighting to get air inside his lungs? Did he look at the man who hanged him and hate him? Did he kick a lot before he died? Anson touched his neck with his right hand, wondered how it would feel to have a rope around it. He could not imagine anything more horrible. He felt very uncomfortable thinking about such a way of dying and quickly took his hand away from his throat.

  “Did it take a long time for Swenson to die?” he asked his father.

  “Probably went real quick.”

  “But if he choked to death …”

  “Likely his neck broke once he fell off his horse. He probably kicked and danced some and then …” Martin made a sound in his throat and drew a finger across his throat like a knife.

  Anson winced at the image of Swenson kicking and the knot under his ear getting tighter and tighter until his wheezing for breath stopped. It must have been a grotesque sight, he thought. And the little guy watching him the whole time, maybe smiling. It gave him the shivers inside.

  “It’s getting down to dark,” Martin said. “We’d best sort out these tracks, see what we’re facing.”

  He rode in a small circle, widened it, again and again until he had covered the entire clearing.

  “Well?” Anson asked.

  “No sign of Cullers and Hoxie coming here yet. Let’s get the hell away from here.”

  “Good idea,” Anson said, his voice quavering. The place gave him the chilblains.

  The two men rode off into the dark, following the tracks of the small rider on the tall horse. They rode until they could see no more and the dark was upon them like black coal dust. Martin rode off the trail a hundred yards and found them a place to bed down for the night.

  “We’ll make no fire,” Martin said to his son. “And as little noise as possible. Keep the horses saddled and tethered. We’ll put on their feed bags and hope they’ll whinny if they hear anyone coming up on us.”

  It was then that Anson realized how tired his father really was. He had not said a word all day, nor had he shown any sign of fatigue. But now it was in his voice and the slow way he got off his horse. It was the first time, too, that Anson realized his father was getting on in years. Not real old, maybe, but not too young anymore, either.


  “I’ll take care of the horses, Daddy.”

  “Good. I swear I’m plumb tuckered out.”

  Anson wondered if the dead man had affected his father as much as it had him. He wondered if he would see the dead, swollen face of Swenson in his dreams, see him gasping for breath and turning purple as he kicked and kicked, trying to get the rope from around his neck.

  25

  JUANITO FORDED THE Guadalupe River at a place he had never been before. He had found it necessary to ride much further north because the river was running high after a cloudburst that morning. Finally he found a fairly shallow ford where the water was not so swift. He surmised that the rains had passed the upper part by and had struck only at his usual crossing.

  He had never seen that part of the country before and rode through it with a strong sense of curiosity. It looked much the same as the deeper part of the Rio Grande Valley, but was somehow different. There was not as much mesquite, for one thing, and the plain was more open. But there were many sand hills and grasses tough as wire. Here the wind blew free and blasted everything in its path, and the small trees were bent like old men.

  The land seemed half seashore and half desert, and the sky was filled with phalanxes of fluffy white clouds that seemed to have been puffed out of some far-off funnel, for they diminished in size as they fell away in the distance. They lay in perfect rows as if the sky had been plowed and the dust that came up was white as flour and shaped like cauliflowers.

  At times it seemed to Juanito that the clouds stood still and he was floating, and he drifted off into one of his meditative states where he detached himself from the world outside and sank deep into the world within. He felt a kind of rapture settle over him, so he gave the horse its head and let it drift through the dunes and nibble at the tough grasses and he let his mind roam above the earth and drift through the clouds, creating no thought of his own nor nurturing any that passed through, just letting himself become part of the sky, the universe, until a great peace grew within him and he knew that he was spirit-brother to all that he saw and all that was earth and sky and beyond, far beyond, the drifting clouds.

  He came upon the small village—some would say by accident, but Juanito would say by design—and it seemed a perfectly natural place to find on his journey back to the Box B. But to his surprise, beyond the village, on a grassy plain, surrounded on three sides by mesquite trees, he saw a rope corral and about a dozen cattle milling around, six bulls and six cows, with a pair of vaqueros keeping them company. The vaqueros strolled around the enclosure, speaking in soft voices and singing to the cattle.

  The village was no more than a few adobes scattered along a small creek, but Juanito saw flowers growing outside each one, anchored in baked clay pots, bursting with color. Two or three dogs, their ribs showing, lay basking in the shade. They did not bark when he rode up, but a few children emerged from some of the adobe huts and walked out toward the stranger.

  “Are you the curandero?” one small boy asked in Spanish.

  “He is the curandero,” said a little Mexican girl with a clean, scrubbed face, her hair in curls, a pretty red bow atop her head.

  “Does someone have sickness?” Juanito asked the boy who had spoken first.

  “My sister,” he said. He turned and pointed to one of the adobes.

  “Watch my horse,” Juanito said and dismounted. A small boy ran up and took the reins from Juanito’s outstretched hand. “Let me watch him,” the boy said. “She’s my sister, too.”

  The older boy turned and walked toward one of the adobes. Juanito followed. Just then a man stepped from another of the adobes. He looked at Juanito, then stepped back in surprise.

  Juanito caught the movement from the corner of his eye. He stopped and looked at the man. “Benito,” he said softly. “Those must be your cattle.”

  Benito Aguilar blinked and stepped out of the doorway. His shirttail was out and he tucked it back in.

  “Juanito,” Aguilar said. “What brings you to this little village?”

  “I rode out of my way to cross the Guadalupe. It was running full to the south.”

  “That is how that I am here. I bought these cattle from a man who lives on the Trinity. Breeding stock.”

  “They look to be fine cattle. Crossbreeds?”

  “Yes, they have the Hereford blood and another that I will not mention.”

  “I understand,” Juanito said. He had not really looked at the cattle closely. They appeared to be of good hardy stock with large frames. He might be able to figure out the other breed if he examined the cattle carefully. “You are heading home to the Rocking A.”

  “I am going home,” Benito said. “But I have friends here as well.”

  “Have you seen the sick girl?”

  “No. It is said that someone sent for a curandero who lives near San Antonio.”

  Juanito saw movement behind Benito in the adobe. Aguilar stepped outside a little way and a young woman appeared in the doorway, smiling. She was grooming her long tresses with a large tortoiseshell comb. She wore only a thin dress with nothing on beneath it. Her face was painted garishly, her cheeks smeared with rouge, her lips daubed with red. She leaned against the doorway and slid her skirt up high on one leg. Then she batted her eyelashes at Juanito.

  “I will look at the sick girl,” the Argentine said.

  “Where have you been, my friend?” Benito asked.

  Juanito told him only that he had been to Galveston with Martin Baron and his son Anson. He did not tell him why.

  “Ah, you left them behind?”

  “They are returning by a different way. Martin had business to do on the Gulf Coast.”

  “I will be leaving in the morning,” Benito said. “Will you take a cup with me tonight?”

  “I am just passing through. I will look at the sick girl and then be on my way, Benito.”

  “A man must take the rest sometimes.”

  “I rest where I am,” Juanito said. The boy, growing impatient, beckoned to the Argentine. “I will talk to you again before I leave.”

  “Well, I do not know anything about the sickness of the girl. I am about to take my siesta.”

  “Well then, Benito, until I see you again.”

  “Hasta la vista, Juanito.”

  He walked past the adobe where the girl was, following the boy. He saw Benito go back inside and then he heard a loud slap and someone whimpering for a moment.

  “Puta!” Benito yelled, and she screamed. Juanito heard a crashing sound and then all was quiet.

  “This is my house,” the boy told Juanito as they came upon another small adobe.

  “What are you called?” Juanito asked.

  “I am called Domingo. I was born on a Sunday.”

  Domingo led Juanito inside the casita. It was dark and cool. There were only two rooms, one larger than the other. The girl lay on a mat in the front room, a woman sitting next to her with a clay olla. She dipped a cloth into the olla and dabbed the cool water on the girl’s brow. Juanito thought she might be twelve or thirteen. She was very thin and wore only a light dress that did not reach her knees. Her breasts were very small.

  “You are the curandero?” the woman asked.

  “No. I am just a stranger, passing through,” Juanito replied.

  “Ay, Dios mío,” the woman exclaimed. Then she looked at the boy. “Why did you bring him here? He is not the curandero.”

  “He said he wanted to help,” Domingo said lamely.

  “How can he help? Teresa is dying.”

  The boy shrugged and left the house.

  “He is worthless,” the woman said. “My husband is dead and I have only Domingo and his little brother, Julio, and Teresa. She burns up with the fever. Go away. You can not help.”

  Juanito stood there, looking at the girl and at the woman. Then he looked around the dim-lit room, only a pale shaft of sunlight filtering through the gauze-covered glassless windows, one at the front of the room, the other at the side oppos
ite where the girl lay in a dark corner. There were bultos recessed into the adobe walls, a crucifix nailed in the center of one wall. The woman picked up a rosary and pressed the tiny crucifix to the girl’s lips.

  “How long has she had the fever?” Juanito asked.

  “Last night and all of this day.”

  “Why do you call for a curandero?”

  “He can heal my daughter.”

  “Your daughter can heal herself,” Juanito said quietly. “The fever is burning up the poison. Have you prayed for her?”

  “What do you mean, have I prayed for her? I pray for her now.”

  “Who do you pray to?” Juanito asked. He looked at a small statue standing on a wooden shelf recessed into the wall.

  “The Virgin Mary, por cierto.”

  “Do you pray to God?”

  “Claro que sí,” she declared.

  “You pray to the statues in this house,” Juanito said.

  “The statues, yes. I pray to them, too.”

  “Do you also pray to Jesus?”

  “Of course. Why do you ask these things? It is none of your business.”

  “You should pray to your daughter,” Juanito said.

  Teresa’s eyes opened and she looked up at the stranger. Her mother’s mouth opened and then she glared at Juanito.

  “Sacrilege!” she exclaimed.

  “Listen,” Juanito said. “Jesus said look to the kingdom within. It is here. In you, in your daughter. She can heal herself if she has faith. If she believes she is well, then she is well.”

  “That is nonsense,” said the woman.

  “Look at your daughter,” Juanito said. “Already she is becoming well again.”

  The woman turned to her daughter. Teresa’s eyes sparkled suddenly even though there was little light in the dark corner of the room where she lay. Her eyes were fixed on Juanito. He put a hand on the girl’s forehead. Her eyes fluttered, brightened. “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “I am feeling better,” Teresa said softly, her voice husky with the fever.

  “You have the same spirit in you that is God’s spirit,” Juanito said. “You have the power to heal yourself. If you see yourself well, you will be well. You can make the fever subside. Close your eyes and listen to your heart. You want to be well, Teresa, so you are well.”