The Storm Family 6

by Matt Chisholm

  There was something on Mart’s mind—the woman who had found him gut-shot among the willows. But he was chary of mentioning her. They talked on and Mart bided his time. He liked it here, talking to McCord. Instinctively, he liked and trusted the man. They sat there for an hour or more. Betsy brought blankets to cover Mart against the evening chill and then a jug of whiskey and glasses. The whiskey wasn’t the best he’d ever tasted and he suspected that McCord had made it himself, but it felt good and he appreciated it.

  Then McCord said: “There’s something about this country that gets to you. Everything alters for a man and he alters by being in it. Take me—I’m a city man, yet I feel as if I’ve been here forever. Everything else is a dream, this is the only reality. Time has been put in its proper place and each individual man has become a complete person to be properly valued. When you come into this country and you say: "I’m going to change. I’m going to become a new person from here on," why, that’s just what happens. A man can be turned right around and start to see things he never saw before. I don’t reckon you can believe that can happen.”

  “Well,” Mart said, “certainly there’s no place in the world where you can start over afresh like it.”

  “Like you,” McCord said.

  Mart was startled.

  “Me?”

  “You think I never heard of Mart Storm?”

  Not so long ago, Mart would have been insulted and enraged at a man stepping where he wasn’t asked, but now he only chuckled.

  “I reckon no news travels like bad news,” he said.

  “And one day,” McCord said, “Linda Aragon will turn clean around and look in the opposite direction.”

  Mart knew McCord could be referring only to the woman who had saved his life, but just the same, he said: “Who’s she?”

  “She saved your life.” Mart knew the man had referred to her intentionally. This man was no idle gossip.

  Mart asked: “She married?”

  “No.”

  He was so relieved he could have sung. Hell, he thought, he’d scarcely spoken to her. He knew nothing about her.

  “Can you tell me about her?” he asked. He reckoned the whiskey was getting to him.

  “Why not? She lives there.” McCord pointed out into the darkness toward the distant mountains. “She is, as you may have gathered, what is called a remarkable woman.”

  “She live alone?”

  “She has her people. She runs cattle, sheep. There’s a lot of land. I heard it was an old Spanish grant. There’s everything a man could need there.”

  “You been there?”

  “Sure. Many times. It’s rather like going to a lost civilization. Linda’s the queen.”

  “Sounds like something out of a book.”

  “You hit it. It’s as if it were a figment of somebody’s imagination. When I go there I have the feeling that I’m going into unreality. It’s pleasant for a while. But only for a while. You’ll see when you go there.”

  “Who says I’m goin’ there?”

  “You will.”

  Mart ruminated a moment, then he said—”Did she ever smile?”

  “Once,” McCord said.

  “When was that?”

  “When she killed a man.”

  Chapter Three

  Nobody knew Linda Aragon’s age. That was because nobody had known her before she had come into this country. It was assumed by most of those who knew her that Aragon was not her real name and in that they were probably right. But nobody disapproved of her use of it. It had a descriptive and even noble ring to it and somehow that suited her. Few realized that it was the name of one of the old houses that had once claimed regal authority over part of Old Spain. Certainly she ruled here where she lived, holding her power in much the same way as the old Spanish landowners did in the days that were gone. Here the Mexicans tended sheep, the vaqueros herded their long-horned cattle of the kind that had come over from Europe with the conquistadores. Here the few travelers who moved through the hills could find an open door in much the same way as they did in the ancient days. Here, even the Indian who dared to enter into the world of the white man might receive food.

  But if any of the strangers who came to her door expected courtesy and conversation from the lady of the land herself, they were disappointed. Linda Aragon had neither the wish nor the need for human company, except on the rare occasions when there was a baile held by her people and then she would step down from her metaphorical throne and join in their festivities with such abandon that they thought her to be another woman. But that was seldom, and for the most part she was a creature aloof to whom they looked for guidance and protection.

  She was, they said among themselves, hard, but she was also just. All authority was hard in the world they knew, but seldom was it just. And there was a curious quality to her hardness that was difficult to put a word to. Many a man had suffered her punishment and yet stayed to serve her well. Perhaps it was that she was not involved in any way with their affairs, but stayed aloof. She gained no pleasure from the pain she inflicted any more than she suffered remorse from dealing it out.

  She now stood in the cool of the patio surrounded by the white walls of her house watching the soothing water of the fountain playing there and she was thinking of Martin Storm. Once since she had left McCord’s store, she had sent a rider to find out how Mart was recovering and, on learning that he was doing well, she had not sent again. The rider who went, Jesus Utrillo, told her that he had seen the gringo sitting there as large as life in front of the store. He had obeyed her instructions and, having learned that the man was recovering from his wound, had not made it known either to McCord or the stranger the reason for his visit. Jesus, she knew, was a great gossip and the news would be among her people that she had sent to inquire after the gringo. She might strive to keep herself isolated, but she was always naked to the public gaze. She had only herself to blame. She had chosen to come here, to build this place and to take up her position with these people. There had been a niche and she had filled it. She didn’t seem to have much choice in the matter. Which was, she mused, a strange attitude for one who always boasted to herself that she made her own fate.

  There came to her Gregorio Nunez. He was a shortish man, dressed in the leather of the cattleman, favoring a horseman’s swagger and the jingling of outsize Chihuahua spurs. He maintained that when a cowman needed his horse to jump, then that horse had better jump or there could be Hell to pay. Besides, he said, large spurs were kinder to a horse. There were men who said that Gregorio was an illiterate horseman who didn’t have the brains to be the right hand of the señorita, but Linda Aragon knew differently. Gregorio was a man of loyalties and that she needed for a place like this. He had organizing ability and fear, while not unknown to him, was not a familiar.

  He took off his sombrero now and gave his little bow. In his harsh Spanish, he now detailed the condition of her establishment, as he put it. Like so many men who did not have their letters, his memory seldom failed him. He knew the sheep to the last ewe and the cattle to the last cow. He knew the state of each water-hole and how many Indians had trotted their ponies across her land during the last few days. He knew how many pups the bitch had pupped at Sebastian’s house and who was responsible for putting little Juanita Gomez in the family way. Straight-faced, Linda accused him of the last. Straight-faced, hand on heart, he admitted that she was flattering him, but he had in the service of truth to deny it. She relied on him for her gossip. Manuel Iturbe was beating his wife again and the gringo in the east wing of the house hadn’t stopped drinking since he arrived here. Gregorio didn’t like the gringos in the house and he made no secret of it.

  “I will look out for the house, Gregorio,” she said, “and you will watch the range.”

  “As you say, señorita,” he said, “but the maids they are frightened. All the time his hand is up their clothes. These gringos despise us. If a man is a man, he chokes on it.”

  “Keep your eyes
on the range, Gregorio.”

  “I try, but it is not easy.”

  “The gringo will be gone soon.”

  “It cannot be too soon for me.”

  “The women do well with the blankets,” she said, “but they will never be up to the standard of the Navahos.”

  “Aah,” said Gregorio, “the barbarians. They make a man nervous. There are too many of them and you make them too welcome out of the kindness of your heart.”

  “Are you telling me I’m too soft?”

  He met those eyes and he lowered his own. His familiarity would be the end of him, he thought.

  “No,” he said, “you are not too soft.”

  “Very well, Gregorio, all is well. Go back to your duties.”

  “And you will speak to the gringo.”

  “I promise.”

  He gave her a thousand thanks, he bowed and he retired, clanking his spurs, dragged his heels through the house, smacked Serafina, the housekeeper, on her fat backside and reached his horse. As he stepped into the saddle, he thought: “By God, it is time the señorita found herself a man. God make it one of our own people. I could not tolerate an accursed gringo in the saddle here.”

  Linda Aragon set her thin face hard and walked to the far end of the house. She entered the cool shade of it and mounted the stairs in front of her. Halfway up, she met a middle-aged Mexican woman hurrying down. She saw fright on the woman’s face and heard the muffled scream in the same moment.

  “Ah, señorita,” the woman cried, “I was coming for you. Such things I have never seen. By God, I say …”

  “Get out of the way, Manuela.”

  “It is the gringo. I must fetch Gregorio.”

  “You will fetch no one. When I cannot handle a gringo, the world will end.”

  She brushed past the woman and reached the top of the stairs, not hurrying. Her eyes glittered, hard and bright as a reptile’s. Turning right at the head of the stairs, she was faced by two doors. Heavy oak, constructed by slave-labor long ago when the Spaniards ruled the land. She opened the second and stepped into the room beyond. The stench of whiskey and human sweat struck her nostrils. She recoiled before it. But she didn’t recoil from the man on the bed. He didn’t hear her enter, but the girl under him saw her with wide eyes. Whether the girl was willing or not, Linda never knew. Nor cared. No gringo was going to sire the children of her people in this way.

  She crossed the room in three strides, caught him by the collar and heaved him off the bed. He hit the floor on his back and glared up at her in shock and fury. When he saw who had handled him, his expression changed. He was still mad, but there had taken place some modification in his anger.

  “Jesus Christ, Linda,” he said softly.

  In Spanish, Linda said to the girl: “Go.”

  The girl obeyed wordlessly, pulling down her wide skirts and going from the room with lowered head. She knew better than to speak now.

  The man climbed to his feet.

  He was a good-looking fellow in his middle twenties, but living had played Hell with him. It had somehow washed out the firmness from the lines of his face. Once, long ago, his nose had been broken. And once, not so long ago, he had received a knife slash down the side of his face. If Aragon was a woman and conscious of the maleness of him, she did not show it. Neither did she show if he inspired any physical fear in her. She had ruled here too long. She was known and there wasn’t a man in the country who would dare to touch her unless she willed it. Her face was cold and her eyes were arrogant.

  “Brydon,” she said, “you have outstayed your welcome here. Tomorrow at dawn, you will ride.”

  He might not have heard her.

  He hitched his pants with one hand and wiped his mouth with the back of the other.

  “You didn’t ought to of done that,” he said.

  “I gave you shelter here,” she said, “and you have abused my hospitality. Never come here again.”

  He laughed. The laugh was a little shaky, but there was enough derision in it to goad her.

  “Christ, Aragon,” he said, “she wasn’t nothin’ but a little Mex piece. They love it. You know they love it. An’ little ole Brydon’s the one to give it ’em.”

  “You came here with a bullet in you,” she said. “You came like the whipped cur you are. You’re alive because I took you in. You’d best watch your tongue or I’ll wish I’d let you die.”

  “Don’t talk that way, honey,” he said. “You know you don’t mean it. Why, I know an’ ever’ man on the owl-hoot knows the way you feel about us’ns. You’re a good sort. I admire you. You’re one fine woman. Only trouble with you is you fancies you’re a goddam queen or somethin’. But you ain’t no queen, Aragon. You’re a woman like the rest. You need a man, girl. You need one real bad. That’d cure that nasty temper of yourn. All you need—one good man. An’ by God if I ain’t the one.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “So I’m drunk. You think the drink gelded me or somethin’.”

  His right hand, the fast gun-hand, shot out and gripped her thin wrist. She resisted him and knew it was useless. It came to her that she might scream, but the thought of calling for help was foreign to her nature. He pulled her towards him.

  “You fool,” she said, “you could get yourself killed for this.”

  He laughed again and the laugh was excited now.

  “You won’t want to kill me after I’m through, sweetheart,” he said. “You’ll want to keep me on ice.”

  His left arm went around her waist and she was pulled against him. The reek of him hit her and she almost gagged. The scream rose in her. His left hand was around her buttocks, holding her hard against his loins.

  “You feel good,” he said. “Jesus, but you feel good.”

  She tried to strike him in the face, but his reaction was like lightning. He spun her toward the bed and she fell over it. He was after her like a pouncing cougar.

  Even as he landed on her, he heard the voice—

  “I think we will stop there, gringo.”

  He rolled over on one side and stared at the doorway, glaring through the hair that fell over his eyes. He knew real fear as he looked into the black eye of Gregorio’s gun. Even as he looked that brown gnarled thumb drew back the hammer.

  “For crissake,” he said. “For crissake, man.”

  The Mexican stood silently, watching him. Slowly, he rose to his feet. All evidence of his manhood was gone. He knew he was very near death.

  Linda Aragon stood up and rearranged her clothes. Womanlike she automatically tidied her dark hair. She was shaking and she hated the fact that both men could see she was. When she spoke, her voice trembled very slightly.

  In Spanish, she said: “You will find him a horse, Gregorio. Not a very good horse and take him a day’s ride south. A little money and some food. If he comes back you will make sure that I do not see him. You understand?”

  The Mexican nodded.

  “I understand, but I do not approve. The carrion should die.”

  “You are probably right, but, nevertheless, you will do as I say.”

  In his bad English, Gregorio said: “Walk ahead of me, gringo. Walk carefully like you are walking on glass. The lady say you can live, but me, I want excuse to kill you.”

  Brydon went to say something, but he thought better of it. He shrugged and went to pick his gun up from the bureau.

  Gregorio said: “Not the gun.”

  “I can’t travel without a gun in this country.”

  “You are wrong. That is what you will do.”

  The man looked shaken. Without looking at the woman, he walked out of the room and down the stairs. Gregorio went after him. It was only then that Linda realized that Gregorio had taken off his spurs. She left the room and walked along the passageway to her own room. This was a long low spacious place in which she spent most of her idle time. Nobody came here but her own servant, the housekeeper and sometimes when he reported to her, Gregorio. It was simply, alm
ost sparsely furnished in the old Spanish tradition, the walls whitewashed, the floors covered with Navaho rugs.

  She sat on her bed, deep in thought, knowing that she was on the edge of tears and hating herself for it. She knew also that the tears belonged only to rage. She should have had that two-bit badman whipped.

  After a while, she pulled herself together, rose and poured water from a pitcher into a bowl. She felt unclean and must wash.

  She heard the cry of the watchman on the tower. Somebody down in the patio called up to him and he replied, but she could not catch the words. The man on the tower had a view of the whole valley.

  She went to the window overlooking the patio and saw Serafina down below.

  “What did he say, Serafina?” she asked.

  “He says there is a rider coming, little one. A gringo.”

  Oh no, the woman thought, not another one.

  Gregorio came into the patio.

  “Why are you still here, hombre?” Linda demanded. “I told you to go with Brydon.”

  “I decided against it, Señorita. You need me here.”

  “I gave you an order and I …”

  “I was willing to incur your disfavor. And I did right as you will soon see.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “This gringo who approaches,” he said, “it is the one who lay wounded at the doctor’s house.”

  She turned away abruptly from the window. She did not want them to see her face.

  She was shaking again. Why did he have to come here? She put a hand to her face and found it burning. She was a fool. She was past all that. This man was just another rider. He had roused pity in her and nothing more. She bathed her face in the cool water and found herself at her mirror combing her hair. She saw she wore her riding clothes. Was he to see her in nothing but these? Then she pulled herself up. He was just another man, following his appetite. They were all the same. She went to her desk and opened her account book. She must treat him the same as the others. He was no different. But she didn’t see the figures on the page and she was waiting for the tap on her door.

  An eternity seemed to tick slowly by.