The Baron Range

by Jory Sherman

  “Anson,” Roy croaked from a few yards behind. “Wait a minute. We’ve got to stop.”

  “Go to hell,” Anson said, his mind going back to that night when Roy had lost his mount, plunging them into this predicament.

  “Listen. We’ve got to have water.”

  “You bastard.”

  “There is water,” Roy said, his voice rasped dry by the boiling heat.

  Anson stopped in his tracks, swayed there, his eyes squinted to slits to shade them from the burning sun.

  “Are you trying to be funny, Roy?”

  “No, I seen a dry stream bed a minute ago. Might be water underneath. We could dig into it.”

  “I never saw no creek bed, dry or otherwise.”

  “Just a few steps back. Looks like water run through it real recent.”

  Anson suppressed his skepticism. “If you’re lyin’ to me, Roy, so help me, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

  Roy stumbled back the way they had come. He had gone only a few yards when he turned and drifted off to his left. “There,” he said, pointing to a dry wash that looked as if it had recently been ravaged by a flash flood. It was on ground that sloped slightly downward, running off in the distance before it disappeared behind a bend in the terrain.

  “I missed it,” Anson said. “God, do you really think there’s water underneath?”

  “Might be,” Roy replied.

  The two men stumbled down the embankment into the dry stream bed. Anson knew that water often went underground in hot weather. There could be moisture a few inches or a few feet underneath the creek bed. Or there might be just sand.

  “Find us a place to dig,” Anson said, licking his swollen and ragged lips.

  Roy walked along the bed, finally stopped. “This looks like a good low spot. It’s soft here.”

  “We’ll try it,” Anson said.

  The men hunkered down opposite each other and drew their knives. They began digging in the sand, chopping away, scooping it out with their hands. They widened the hold and deepened it. The sand began to come up damp, and then wetter and wetter, until finally a dirty little pool of water appeared.

  “Water!” exclaimed Anson.

  “Easy now. Just dip your fingers in and wet your lips. I’ll do the same and then we’ll dig deeper.”

  Anson forced himself to just wet his lips, but he yearned for a deep drink. He waited impatiently while Roy wet his lips. Then the two men began to dig frantically, spurred on by the thought of finding enough water to drink, to turn their dry insides into an ocean.

  “Apaches drink all the water they can,” Anson said. “Make themselves sick with it. And then they can go for days without water. A white man drinks a little at a time and then dies of thirst.”

  “I never knew that,” Roy said. They dipped into the water with their hands and chewed on it, let it slink down their throats like wine and then scooped up more. The water was hot and brackish, but they didn’t care. It was the first wetness they had tasted in days.

  “I hate to leave this water,” Anson said. “Little as it is, it saved our lives.”

  “We could follow this stream bed. It ought to take us right to the Pecos.”

  “Yeah, but how far? How long can we last without water?”

  “Not long,” Roy said. “When I was riding with Juanito, he told me some things.”

  “Like what?”

  “He said to expect what you want and you’ll have it.”

  “Yeah, he told me something like that, too,” Anson said.

  There was a long silence between the two men.

  “So do we leave this water hole and go on?” Roy asked finally.

  “We’ll drink as much as we can and go tonight,” Anson said.

  “We won’t be able to see this dry bed at night.”

  “I guess I’m not thinking straight, Roy. You’re right. We have to go on. The sun will suck this water up faster than we can drink it

  Roy drew in a breath. “I wish Juanito was here with us right now.”

  “Yeah, me, too. How come you wanted to ride with him, anyway?”

  “Do you want the truth?”

  “Sure.”

  “I didn’t until he said he used to ride for the Box B. My pa told me about your pa and about the land there. He said I should buy some of it someday, so I went with Juanito.”

  “You want to buy land in the valley?”

  “Yes. I want a ranch of my own, a wife, a home. Like everybody.”

  “You and I get back to the Box B, I’ll see to it you get some land.”

  “Shake on it?”

  “Shake on it,” Anson said, and held out his hand.

  68

  SAM MAVERICK PAID Martin Baron off in cash after the freight on Baron’s boat was unloaded at Matagorda. He counted out the bills and placed them in Martin’s hands. “You can count it again if you wish,” Sam said.

  “Your count is good with me, Sam. You know that. How’s your health?” Martin knew that Maverick had almost been executed as a spy at the Presidio de San Antonio de Bexar in 1835, which at that time was under Mexican rule. He had come as close to a firing squad as a man could get without dying.

  “Damned fine since I got out of the goddamned cattle business.”

  Martin laughed. Maverick had never owned more than a few hundred head of cattle in his entire life, but he was a builder of empires, a smart businessman whose name would live longer than anyone’s in that part of Texas. He had gotten cattle in lieu of a debt owed to him, and the herd had multiplied so much without any help from Sam that every stray cow came to be known as “Maverick’s cow,” or just a “maverick.” People still called any wild cow a maverick. Cowmen branded such strays, which might have been Sam’s, and laughed when they counted up the mavericks they had put their brands to.

  “You were damned smart to get out when you did, too.”

  “Oh?”

  “Haven’t you heard? The Apaches are on a rampage. Some buck named Cuchillo and his son Culebra are torching every blamed homestead from the Rio Grande to the Nueces. Stealing cattle right and left, murdering people. A damned menace if you ask me.”

  Martin’s face paled. “Where did you hear this?”

  “Why, just this morning. They murdered your wife’s folks, Larry and Polly Darnell, and they were headed north, with a few murderous stops in between.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “A damned fact, Baron. Those ranchers in there had better pack up and give the land back to the savages. That’s what I think. But I also heard that Matteo Aguilar made some kind of deal with Culebra, the Apache chief. If so, he’s a mighty dangerous man and a scoundrel to boot.”

  Martin had heard that Matteo Miguelito Aguilar was running the Rocking A, but if he was in cahoots with the Apaches, that could only mean that he wanted the Baron ranch to go under. He had heard rumors that Aguilar was desperate for money to keep his spread going and regretted the land that had been sold off.

  “You believe that Aguilar is behind the Apache raids?”

  “I do. But whoever’s behind this latest outbreak of Apaches on the warpath, it means big trouble in the Rio Grande Valley.”

  With that, Maverick stalked off the pier, giving orders to his men waiting by a wagon to haul off his supplies shipped in from New Orleans. Martin watched him go, stuffed the bills in his pocket, and then clenched his fists. He thought of Caroline and Anson, all alone on the Box B, unaware of the raiding Apaches. He wondered if he could find a horse to ride and how fast he could get there.

  He walked back aboard his boat, the Mary E, and yelled at his mate, Rob Coogan, a giant of a man who could cook and fight and drink. He could also wrestle cargo like Mike Fink could clear a tavern at the drop of a hat or the uttering of a fighting word.

  “Rob, get up here on deck.”

  Coogan had already started his port leave in the galley, swigging down West Indies rum and squirting lime juice down his gullet.

  Coogan’s baldin
g head appeared first at the hatch and then his face emerged, an engaging smile on it.

  “What’s up, Marty?”

  “I’ve got to go to my ranch quick. You stay here and take on cargo for New Orleans. Hire a helper if you need one.”

  “I thought you was never goin’ back to that old ranch of your’n,” Coogan said, now fully on deck and towering several inches above Baron.

  “There’s trouble. Get my rifle and possibles and pack me some grub. I’ll be back within the hour. Get my pistols, too. You know where I keep ’em.”

  “Sure, Marty, sure, and I’ll do that. I just wish you weren’t in such a dither so’s we could talk and have a drink together. We made a bit of money this trip, eh?”

  “Yes, I’ll give you money before I leave. Just take care of business, will you? Don’t get too drunk.”

  “Me, get drunk? Why, I can drink with the best of them, I can, and still hold me liquor.”

  “Okay, Rob, whatever you say. Now pack me some grub and get the rifles and pistols, will you?”

  “In a twinklin’, Marty.” The big man disappeared below and Martin ran up the gangplank like a man on fire.

  All he could think about was Caroline and Anson facing Cuchillo and his Apaches. He had been away too long and for the past few months had been screwing up the courage to go back and apologize to them for his desertion. He had been too critical of Caroline, he knew. Had branded her for life over something that he’d seen happen time and time again in other places he had been. It still hurt to think about it, but he wasn’t entirely blameless. He had left her alone too much, and many times had neglected his husbandly duties because he was too tired, too worried or too caught up in the cattle business.

  He’d had time to think over the years and now it was time to go back. On the way to the stables, he thought about what he would do. He would sell the Mary E and ask Caroline to take him back. If only he could get there in time. If only he could get there before Cuchillo did and help his family fight off the Apaches.

  He ran to the stables and started thinking about how long it would take him to ride to the Box B.

  The stableman was out back, throwing hay to several horses in a corral.

  “I need two horses quick,” Martin told the man. “Also a saddle, saddlebags, and a bridle.”

  “Rent or buy?”

  “Buy.”

  “You by yourself?”

  “Yes, what’s that got to do with it?”

  “Nothing, I guess. I just wondered what you were going to do with two horses and only one saddle. You going to pack the second one?”

  “No, I’m going to ride both of them.”

  “At once’t?”

  “No. But I’m going to kill one of them riding him into the ground. Now, get me two fast ones. I haven’t got time to argue with you.”

  “Cost you.”

  “I don’t give a damn what it costs.”

  “Hundred apiece.”

  Martin fished in his pocket, took out the wad of bills Sam Maverick had given him. The stableman’s eyes widened.

  “That’ll do,” he said. “I’ll pick you out two good ’uns.”

  “Make it quick,” Martin said to the stableman.

  “Sure, mister,” the stableman said and continued to pitch hay into the feed bin inside the corral. Martin wanted to wrench the pitchfork out of the man’s hands.

  “Hurry, hurry,” he said to himself. And then, “God protect my family.”

  And he realized that he hadn’t prayed in a long, long time.

  69

  ESPERANZA CUEVAS SAT outside on a little stool in the shade of a tree at a little table she had made by placing two boards across two small barrels. Four twenty-five-pound flour sacks filled with dirt and sand, placed on top of the boards at either end, steadied the makeshift table. She ground the corn in a metate with a pestle made of stone.

  Lázaro was playing nearby, a little game he had made up involving small pebbles in deep-cut circles in the earth. The pebbles were of two nearly uniform sizes, big and small. He rolled the little pebbles into the big ones, knocking them toward the inside perimeter of the circle. Then he would feel the big marble to see how close to the line it was. He did this until he had all the large stones near the line without going outside of the circle.

  “Ptooey,” Lázaro said, flicking a small stone into the circle. He heard the click as the stone struck another. “Ay!” he exclaimed. Then he thumbed another one at a large pebble and heard nothing. “Missed,” he said in Spanish.

  Esperanza listened to the sound of the stones clicking together and only half heard Lázaro’s exclamations. She ground the corn into fine meal, pushing hard on the pestle and swirling it around in the bowl. That sound, too, was soothing to her, for it represented good work for a good purpose.

  Then she heard something else, something that made her skin prickle. She didn’t know what it was, but she stopped grinding the corn and lifted her head. She turned to determine the direction from which the sound had come. What was it? she asked herself. A whisper? A small wooden mallet striking a dowel? A horse lightly kicking one of the poles in the corral?

  She looked all around her, but saw nothing. Not at first. Then as she started to bend her head and go back to the grinding of the corn, she saw a shadow, a flicker or something just at the edge of her vision. She turned quickly, wondering what it was. She saw only the barn and the corrals out back, the gently undulating grasses in the fields, the vegetables in the garden in back of the house.

  “What is it, Esperanza?” Lázaro asked suddenly, and she realized he had stopped playing with the stones.

  “Did you hear something, Lázaro?”

  “I heard something. Somebody running.”

  “Running?” The boy’s hearing was very keen, she knew. “Running? Where?”

  “By the barn. I heard something else, too. Something buzzing through the air.”

  “Buzzing?”

  “Like a whirring some birds make with their wings.”

  Esperanza felt a cold chill creep over her. She looked back at the barn, but saw nothing. She looked at Lázaro, who was looking at her, even though she knew he could not see her.

  “Where did you hear these things?” she asked.

  Lázaro pointed. “Over behind the barn.”

  “Was it Carlos?”

  “I do not think so,” said Lázaro. “But it was a man I heard running. After I heard the other sound.”

  “Carlos would not be running in the heat of the day. Unless something was wrong. Even then I do not think he would run.”

  “No. I have never heard Carlos run. He walks very slowly, too.”

  “Ay de mi.” she whispered. “Quick, let us go into the house and tell the senora.”

  “Tell her what?”

  “I think there is something wrong. Quick, quick. Hurry, hurry.”

  She stood up and walked to the boy, grabbed his hand, dragged him toward the house. She wanted to scream, but she willed herself to silence until she reached the safety of the house. Then just before they reached the back porch, Esperanza saw something that made her heart skip a beat. On the hill beyond the front of the house, she saw a horse and rider. The rider held a lance over his head and waved it back and forth. Then the Apache wheeled his horse and disappeared beyond the crest of the hill.

  Esperanza was out of breath by the time she reached the back porch and clambered up the steps. She flung open the door after pulling down the latchkey and stumbled into the kitchen.

  “Carolina, Carolina,” she called. From somewhere in the house, Caroline answered.

  “I am in the sewing room.”

  “Apaches, Apaches,” Esperanza blurted out as she released Lázaro’s hand and raced to the little room Caroline had made into a place for sewing and crocheting.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Here. Up on the hill. I saw one.” Esperanza entered the room. Caroline had a piece of thread in her mouth and a needle in her hands. On h
er lap was the cutout piece of cloth for a shirt she was making for Lázaro.

  Caroline stuck the needle into a pincushion shaped and colored like a tomato and set her sewing aside. She arose from her chair and swept past Lázaro and Esperanza. “You two stay here. I’m going out to the barn.”

  “I want to go,” Lázaro said.

  “No,” Caroline said emphatically. And then she was gone. She did not hear the tug-of-war going on between Esperanza and Lázaro as he tried to break free to follow his adoptive mother.

  On the way out of the house, Caroline took a rifle out of the gun cabinet in the front room, slung a pouch of ball and a powder horn over her shoulder. She checked the pan and flint, made sure the rifle was loaded. She walked out the back door, moving swiftly toward the back of the barn and checking the hillside for any sign of Apaches.

  Carlos had been butchering a calf that morning, she knew. It was so quiet, she wondered if he was still alive or had run away at the sight of the Apache that Esperanza had seen.

  The back doors of the barn were slightly open. She waited before going in, listening for any sound. When she heard nothing, she slipped through the doors and stood to one side, holding the rifle, a Maryland-made rifle in .60 caliber that Martin had taught her to shoot. It was heavy, but she had confidence in it.

  “Who’s there?” she asked loudly.

  There was no answer.

  “Carlos?” Again no one replied.

  Her eyes adjusted to the light. In the nearest corner stall, she saw the carcass of the calf. It had been gutted and partially skinned. She walked over to it and then jumped backward when she saw Carlos’s body lying in the shadows. She fought down the bile that rose up in her throat and stepped closer.

  “Oh, my god,” she shrieked. Carlos lay dead, his shirt gory with blood, his throat slashed hideously from ear to ear. And his head was bloody as well, the scalp snatched from it, leaving a small circle of exposed skull. She brought a fist to her mouth to keep from screaming. “You bastards,” she breathed.