The Baron Range

by Jory Sherman

  She thought of the Apaches out there beyond the hill. They always came from that way to attack La Loma de Sombra. The high ground, Martin had called it. Well, the cannon, its brass gleaming like gold, he had bought so long ago was still there, aimed at the flat ground beyond the barn. Aimed precisely at the place where they would come off the hill and start their charge. The cannon was loaded with shot, coins and bits and scraps of metal.

  She walked over to it and knelt down, leaning her rifle against the barrel. She picked up flint and the curved piece of steel used to start the tinder burning. She began to scrape the steel crescent with the flint chip, holding it close to the tinder in the little box kept dry and out of the rain.

  “I’ll open those front doors for you when you’ve got the fire started.” The voice startled Caroline and she dropped the steel into the tinder box. She turned and saw the shadowy silhouette of a man framed in the opening at the back of the barn.

  “Martin?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You—you’re back?”

  “And so are the Apaches. I saw them before I rode down. They’re singing their war chants, getting ready to ride down that hill.”

  “You came back,” she said numbly.

  Martin strode up to her, picked her up by the arms and drew her to him. She smelled his manly scent and crumpled in his caress.

  “Oh, Martin. I’ve missed you so.”

  “I’ve missed you, too. And Anson.”

  “Anson? He should be back any day now. He—he …”

  “Shh, don’t talk. Get that fire going. I see you brought the big rifle. Good.”

  “I—I can’t start the fire now. Will you?”

  Martin smiled. He knelt down and struck sparks off the steel. They flew into the tinder. He picked up the ball of dry shavings and blew into them. The fire caught and he set it back in the firebox, added faggots that began to blaze.

  “I’ll open the door just so,” Martin said. “And you get ready to put fire in the hole. It’s all loaded?”

  “Yes,” she said, staring at him as if he was a dead man come back to life.

  Martin opened the front doors of the barn wide enough so that the cannon would have a wide field of fire, but not so wide that the Apaches could see inside.

  “Now let them come,” he said.

  70

  LISTEN,” JUANITO SAID. Joselito leaned closer to hear what the dying man had to say. It was difficult to catch his words with the jouncing of the cook wagon, the noise of the cattle and horses in the small caravan.

  “Yes, I am listening,” Joselito said, but he wondered if Juanito could hear him.

  “Can you hear the leaves of the jacaranda tree rustling?”

  “I hear them,” Joselito lied.

  “I can hear the jaguar prowling in the cordillera; I can hear his soft purr as he seeks his mate. Ah, the mountains and the wind blowing across the pampas. I can hear my father calling me.”

  Joselito could barely hear. Juanito’s voice was only a whisper and then it was still. The boy leaned down to listen for a breath, but there was none. “Alonzo,” he called, tears filling his eyes. “I think Juanito has died.”

  “Then he has died,” Guzman said. “Be quiet. There is something up ahead. The men are stopping.”

  “But Juanito has died.”

  “He will keep,” said the old cook and then the wagon groaned and the steers came to a halt. The wagon settled. Joselito looked down at Juanito Salazar. The Argentine’s eyes were closed and there was the trace of a smile on his face.

  “Adiós,” Joselito said. “Vaya con Dios.” It was very quiet in the wagon, and he heard shouting and cheering. “What is happening?” he asked Lonnie.

  “It is Anson and the man called Roy Killian. They have just joined us.”

  “Let me see. I want to see,” Joselito cried, and then he was scrambling out of the wagon and running toward the head of the column. He saw Anson Baron and Roy Killian surrounded by Ken Richman and the vaqueros. They were clapping them on the back and pouring water from the canteens over their heads.

  “How in hell did you get way down here?” Ken asked.

  “Blind luck,” Roy said.

  “Juanito guided us,” Anson said.

  “Juanito? I don’t understand.” Ken blinked his eyes in bewilderment.

  “Oh, just a joke between us, Ken,” said Anson. “Give us some water to drink, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  Joselito stepped forward then. “Juanito has just died,” he said quickly, then bowed his head and took off his hat.

  “Juanito is dead?” Anson asked.

  “I didn’t know,” Ken said. “I knew he was going to die, though.”

  “Damn,” Roy said. “Don’t that beat all? How’d he die?”

  Ken pointed to the prisoners whose horses were roped together behind the cook wagon where two Box B vaqueros held rifles at the ready. “He was shot by one of those rabbles there. Or maybe Mickey Bone. We found out Bone was their leader and he lit a shuck when he saw we were going to win the fight.”

  “Who are those men?” Anson asked after taking a deep swallow from the canteen. “They’re not Indians. What’s Bone doing coming after me?”

  “Mercenaries,” Ken told him. “Hired by Matteo Aguilar to steal the proceeds of our drive. I also found out that Matteo made a pact with the Apaches.”

  “What kind of pact?”

  “The Indians are going to burn you out and Matteo will take back the land.”

  “Like hell he will,” Anson said. “Come on, let’s ride to Texas.”

  “We’re already in Texas,” Ken said. “But where are the horses and mules you bought?”

  “Probably gone to Texas, too,” Anson said, and everyone laughed.

  In minutes, after Anson and Roy looked in the wagon and shook their heads at the sight of Juanito’s still body, the two lost men were mounted on fresh horses and leading the way back to the Box B.

  Along the way, Ken gave Anson the letter Juanito had wanted him to have. “He said he wanted to be buried on the Box B.”

  “I’ll read the letter later. I’m worried about my mother. She’s all alone. If the Apaches come while we’re gone …”

  Anson didn’t want to think about it. He was saddened by the death of Juanito and thought of him as they crossed the Nueces and rode the trail home, pushing the horses faster than they should, pushing themselves almost beyond endurance.

  “I’ve got Matteo by the balls now,” Anson told Roy. “You’ll get yourself some land out of this, wait and see.”

  “I would be in your debt, Anson.”

  “We made it this far, Roy. We can make it the rest of the way, you and me.”

  Roy grinned. He wanted the land now. Not for his father’s sake, but for his own. He looked at Anson Baron and marveled at his luck in meeting such a man. And he too thought of Juanito with sadness and respect. Such men, he reasoned, do not come along very often. I am lucky to have met them.

  It was just before dusk when Anson and the others passed Baronsville as the lanterns were being lit. They heard the boom of a cannon as they neared the Box B headquarters. And then they heard the screams and the yipping of Apaches like fiery streamers on the evening air, and the sound of gunshots popping like Chinese firecrackers.

  And then they all were galloping down the hill to La Loma de Sombra, their rifles gripped tightly, the manes of their horses flowing in the wind.

  71

  APACHES LAY DEAD at the foot of the hill and along a path leading to the front of the barn. Others staggered about, wounded by shrapnel. A pall of white smoke hung in the air like a cloud, tendrils of it floating off across the plain. Martin shot one brave who was knocked off his horse from the impact. Caroline picked off another at close range.

  Anson and his men rode into the melee, shooting their rifles, dropping Apaches all around. They fired and reloaded. Then the remaining Apaches, at Culebra’s order, rode away, carrying the body of his
father, Cuchillo, on the back of a pinto, back up the hill and out of sight.

  “Daddy?”

  “Hello, Anson.” Martin stepped away from the barn. His face was blackened by black powder blowback. “Glad you got back safely.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Anson stammered.

  “Light down and give me a handshake.”

  Anson bounded off his horse and stepped up to the father he thought he had lost forever. “I’m glad you came back, Daddy. How come you did?”

  “It’s where I belong, I guess.”

  “Well, things have changed since you left, Daddy. I own the Box B now. And this money I got is going for more land.”

  Caroline’s eyes widened. She pressed her lips tightly together to keep from saying anything. But she watched the two men, one her husband, the other her son, as they squared off against each other in the deep silence that cropped up between them.

  “That’s good, son. You done good,” Martin said. “I didn’t come back expectin’ to pick up where I left off.” But something had happened to him on the long ride to the ranch. The land had gotten into him, and when he saw cattle grazing where once had been mesquite and an empty wilderness, the tug of the land had brought him back to his dream, his and Juanito’s dream. And as he rode, he left behind the sea and drank in the beauty of Texas with its long sky and endless expanse of land just made for growing cattle and a family. He had almost thrown it all away in the blindness of his stupidity. Now he wondered if he could ever have it back again, all of it, the way it had been when he had first gazed upon the Matagorda coast and seen beyond to the lush virgin valley of the Rio Grande.

  “Well, you ain’t,” Anson said in a firm tone.

  Martin felt as if he had been slapped in the face, and the hurt went deeper than the sting of Anson’s words. He had been an outcast and he still was. He bit his lip, though, and did not say anything, for he understood how Anson felt. The land belonged to who claimed it, not to those who rode on through and left it behind. Anson had taken charge and Martin was proud of him for that. But his son’s words hurt, nevertheless.

  Finally Caroline could contain herself no longer. She stepped between the two men she loved and held out her arms as if to separate them before they started fighting with their fists. Then she turned to Anson.

  “Your father came back because he heard from Sam Maverick that we were in trouble. Your grandparents and your uncle were killed by those same Apaches you see lying on this bloody ground. If he hadn’t come when he had, I’d be lying there, too. So you treat your father with respect, young man, or I’ll give you a hiding you won’t forget.”

  “Yes’m,” Anson said meekly. Then, he turned to his father. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I—I just thought …”

  “Son, I can see you’re all haired over and growed. You’ve done well by the Box B and I want no quarrel with you. I got me some money and I aim to sell the boat and settle down. Maybe try and make up for the years I left you and your mother alone. I can buy land from someone else or I can help you build up the Box B. It’s your choice. I won’t get in your way.”

  Anson pondered what his father had said for several seconds. Then he grinned and held out his hand again. “Daddy, I—I’d like you to come back and stay. We could work together and make the Box B the biggest ranch in Texas. I didn’t mean no disrespect, nohow.”

  Caroline smiled and pulled the two men together. She put her arms over their shoulders. “You two,” she said.

  Anson and Martin shook hands.

  “Why, you’re old enough to call me Dad, aren’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Welcome home, son,” Caroline said. She slipped her right hand from Martin’s shoulder and embraced Anson.

  “Mother. We got a good price for the cattle.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a fifty-dollar gold piece, placed it in her hand. “I had the quartermaster issue me a demand note for most of the money. Good at any bank.”

  “That was smart of you, son,” Martin said.

  “I loaded sacks full of old horseshoes and washers and whatever metal scraps I could find. The mules ran off with all that junk.”

  Roy laughed. “You sure had me fooled,” Killian said.

  “That was the idea,” Anson said. “I wondered if any of our vaqueros would get greedy, or if you might think about all that money and do me in.”

  Roy’s face twitched as though he had been stung. “You didn’t trust me?”

  “I didn’t trust nobody, Roy.”

  “That’s good, son,” Caroline said. “Are you hungry?”

  “We all are,” Anson replied. “We rode a long way.” He told his mother and father about the fight with the mercenaries sent by Matteo Aguilar. “We’ll get all the land we want at a good price now,” he said. “We’ve got Matteo dead to rights. Either he sells to us, or we …”

  “I don’t think it will come to that, son,” Martin said. “Matteo’s just about at the end of his rope. He’s hurting bad now and I don’t think he’ll give us any argument.” He looked around. “Say, I thought Juanito was with you. Your mother told me he went on the drive with you.”

  “I almost forgot, Dad. He—he’s in the wagon. Dead. He wanted to be buried here on the Box B.”

  Anson was not prepared for his father’s reaction. Martin stepped back and turned his head and then began to sob. His body shook and then he stopped crying and stood up straight, brushed the tears off his face.

  “He was the best man I ever knew,” Martin said.

  “Yes, pad. The best any of us ever knew. He died bravely. Oh, Juanito left us a letter. Ken gave it to me, but I haven’t read it yet.”

  “I’d like to see it,” Martin said.

  Anson walked back to his horse and took Juanito’s letter from the saddlebag. He took it to his father, handed it to him. “Go ahead, open it.”

  Martin opened the letter. It was written in flowery script and in English. Tears welled up in his eyes and streaked down his face as he read the letter.

  “Do you want to hear what he wrote?” Martin looked at Caroline and Anson.

  “Yes, we do,” Caroline said.

  “Go ahead, Dad. Read it to us.”

  Ken Richman and Roy Killian walked over to listen. The vaqueros were busy looking at the dead Apaches, checking to see if any were still alive, taking from them souvenirs to show their families.

  “Here is what Juanito wrote,” Martin said, and then began to read.

  Dear Father:

  Thank you for giving me life, as you give life to all things. You are the fragrance in a flower, the light in every star, the song from a bird’s feathered throat. You are the air I breathe, the earth I walk upon, the fire from the sun that sleeps inside the tree, the wind in my sails, the blood that flows in my veins.

  I have seen you in the eyes of children, on the wrinkled faces of the old ones, and in the smiles of the wolf and the raccoon. I have heard your voice in the symphonies that soar from your heart, in the sad chords of a Spanish flamenco and from the dark melodies of a son huasteco. I have seen your shadow on the face of the moon and felt your handshake from every stranger whose path crosses mine. I have tasted the sweet water from your well, enjoyed the food of you at my table, and I have often looked up to the sky and felt your presence.

  I carry your spirit within me and it has made me strong and given me faith to see beyond the bends in the road and find peace in solitude and silence. I have heard your whispers in the wind, and touched your soul with mine when I pray.

  I am grateful to you, Father of All, for the abundance in my life, for the prosperity in my heart. I give thanks to you for all I’ve seen and done, for all I’ve loved and cherished. Friendships die, but the time that they live between two people, they can never be taken away.

  I thank you, Father, for the friendship you gave me with Martin Baron. That is what lives, and it lives forever. I pray that you keep this family together, that you heal their wounds as you have healed mine ove
r the years. I am leaving them behind, but I want your spirit to stay with them as your spirit stayed with me all my life.

  I give my self to you, not in sorrow, but in gladness. I give my spirit back to the source whence it came.

  Muchísimas gracias a Usted, Dios mío.

  Your loving son,

  Juanito Salvador Salazar

  Anson wiped tears from his eyes. He looked at Ken and Roy and his mother. They all were crying.

  “I will miss him,” Caroline said, and then looked around. Esperanza and Lázaro had come out of the house and were standing nearby.

  “Who is Juanito?” Lázaro asked in Spanish.

  “A good man,” Esperanza said. “A holy man.”

  “What is holy?” asked Lázaro.

  “Someday I will tell you,” Esperanza said.

  “He was a cattleman,” Martin said. “The best in Texas.”

  “The best in the world,” Anson said. “Dad, let me read the letter again.”

  Martin handed Juanito’s letter to his son. Anson read it quickly, then looked up. “I never knew he had a middle name.”

  “Neither did I,” Martin said.

  “Salvador,” Anson said and his voice was hushed as if he was praying.

  “It means ‘savior’ in English,” Esperanza said.

  “I know,” Anson said.

  “We’ll bury him where he wanted to be buried,” Martin said. “And he’ll always be a part of Texas.”

  And then Martin walked over to the abandoned cook wagon and looked inside. He pulled the blanket from the face of Juanito and looked at the withered visage of his friend.

  “I never got the chance to apologize for accusing you wrongly,” Martin said, the tone of his voice soft, just above a whisper. “I’m awful sorry. I know you’d forgive me if you could. I wondered if I could forgive Caroline for what she done, but on the ride back to the ranch, I thought of something you told me, Juanito. You said we were all one, that we needed and depended on one another, and I guess if there was fault in what Caroline done, there was fault in what I done. I left her by herself even when I was in the same room with her and I didn’t listen to her when she was calling out to me. Like you said, we’re all part of the same thing, and I was part of what Bone did to her and I don’t blame her none. I—I forgive her, and like you told me, I got to forgive myself now.”