The Baron War

by Jory Sherman

  “I think you are making a big mistake, Matteo.”

  “Eh? Why do you say that?”

  “Wilhoit obviously warned Martin Baron about your planned raid. If you go against him with your little army, he will be waiting for you. Do you remember what he and his cannon did to the Apaches who attacked him?”

  “Yes,” Matteo said.

  “Well, you don’t want to run up against a four-pounder. He’ll cut your men to pieces.”

  “I have been training my army for a long time, Reynaud.”

  “Ah, have you trained them to be bulletproof?”

  “There is no need for sarcasm.”

  “Perhaps there is. The only way to beat Baron is to outsmart him.”

  “I intend to outsmart him. And to outshoot him, too.”

  “How?”

  “I keep my plans to myself until the last moment.”

  The two reached the back door of the house. Inside, the new baby born to Luz Aguilar was squalling at the top of his lungs. Matteo rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall of the house, unwilling to go in and face the noise of the newborn.

  “I think it would be better if I take on Martin as originally planned,” Reynaud said. “Give me two of your best men, Luis and Paco, perhaps, and I will see to it that Martin comes to town. I will call on him to fight. Your two men will be hidden and when I face Martin, we will cut him down.”

  “You were going to do that months ago, Reynaud.”

  “Ah, but you wanted to make money in the slave trade, my friend. That was a distraction from my mission.”

  The baby stopped yowling and Matteo turned, opened the back door. The two men walked through the empty kitchen to the front room, which was also deserted. Matteo sat in his favorite chair, one covered in cowhide, soft, comfortable. Reynaud took a seat on the leather-covered sofa, next to a small table. He picked up the clay cenicero, saw that it was clean, and dug out the makings from his shirt pocket. He offered the pouch to Matteo, who shook his head. Reynaud rolled a smoke, struck a fosforo, and inhaled the warm smoke.

  The room was spacious, cool, with all the windows open and a light breeze blowing. It was a man’s room, a rancher’s room, with spurs and dueling pistols on the wall, a set of polished longhorns above the mantel over the fireplace, with its forged andirons and small bellows all neatly stacked next to a firewood cradle. Apache scalps decorated one corner where there were also bows, arrows, quivers, lances, and medicine pouches taken off of dead Indians.

  “How would you make sure Martin came to town looking for you?” Matteo asked.

  “I would send him a message, reminding him of how he defiled my sister in New Orleans, and that I had come to challenge him to a duel.”

  “And he would come?”

  “Martin has never run away from any fight that I know.”

  “But, a duel?”

  “If he is a man of honor, he would take up the challenge.”

  “It might be worth my consideration, this plan of yours, Reynaud.”

  “With Martin dead, you would have little trouble taking over his rancho, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Do you know Martin’s son Anson?”

  “No. I have never met him. Why, is he to be considered?”

  Matteo smiled without showing any of his teeth.

  Reynaud blew smoke into the air, waiting for a reply.

  “There are some who consider him more dangerous than his father.”

  “And are you one of those, Matteo?”

  “I have respect for Anson. The stories about him are too many and too reliable not to be true.”

  “Then perhaps I should challenge Anson to a duel, as well. After I have taken care of Martin.”

  Matteo laughed out loud. Reynaud, discomfited, sat back on the divan, stiffening as if slapped.

  “I do not think Anson would be such a gentleman as his father. He grew up here in the valley. He is as wild as an Apache, I hear, and when he has the blood in his eye, he is like the savage wolf with the fangs.”

  “Hmmm.” Reynaud took another puff on his cigarette. His face was wreathed in blue smoke, but he relaxed and crossed his legs. “Then I shall have to think of this pup and how we might, ah, do him in, as well. Perhaps he drinks the whiskey in the saloon?”

  “Anson is, as I have said, a wild thing. He seldom goes to town, I have heard. You are more likely to find him out with the wild cattle or trailing after Apaches in the mesquite.”

  “I am an expert shot with the long rifle, Matteo.”

  “You would hunt him? Then you would have to be very smart, like the Apaches, who have done the same and Anson is still alive.”

  “He is a man, is he not? Then he can be killed, the same as any other.”

  “If you kill his father, Reynaud, you would have to kill Anson. How you do it is your business.”

  “And I am very good at my business, Matteo.”

  “Claro que si.” Matteo shook his head. “I do not know if you can do any of this. I have the army. My men are ready to attack the Baron rancho. I think we can win.”

  Reynaud finished his cigarette, ground it out in the ashtray. He was about to speak when there was a knock on the front door. Matteo looked around, but there was no criada present to answer the knock. He arose and walked to the door, opened it. Reynaud sat there, listening to Matteo speaking to one of the Mexican hands in Spanish. He thought it was Fidel Rios, but was not sure.

  Then the door closed and Matteo walked back into the room, stood looking down at Reynaud. “Did you hear what Fidel had to say?”

  “I thought that was Rios. I heard some of it. Bone? Mickey Bone?”

  “Mickey Bone. He has returned. Fidel said he was riding in with his wife and perhaps a baby. This might change everything, Reynaud.”

  “I do not like Mickey Bone and he does not like me.”

  Matteo smiled. “I know. But you asked for two good men. If Mickey would go to town with you…”

  “He has already refused once, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember. But perhaps Mickey has more at stake now than before. If he has a child…”

  Reynaud shrugged, stood up. “I do not trust Bone,” Reynaud said.

  “Then you are a pair. He does not trust you, either.”

  “Did not Bone once work for Baron?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe he still has loyalty for him.”

  “Maybe. Maybe we will find out, eh?”

  With that, Matteo walked to the front door, gesturing for Reynaud to follow him. Reluctantly the Frenchman fell into step behind Matteo as the rancher went to meet Mickey Bone, riding in from God-only-knew-what hell on earth.

  5

  LUCINDA FANNED THE coals in the firebox, opened the lid and put more kindling inside as the fresh shavings caught fire. She leaned over and blew on the flames until the small sticks of wood burst into flame. She closed the lid and opened the breather on the side. Then she turned to Esperanza, who was seated at the table, holding the young blind boy Lazaro on her lap. Both women had been crying. Their eyes were red-rimmed, their cheeks streaked with the tracks of tears.

  “Why did my mother die?” Lazaro asked.

  “God took her,” Esperanza said. “Took her to heaven.”

  “Where is heaven?”

  “In the sky. Far beyond the stars.”

  “I wish I could see the stars.”

  “One day, you will.”

  “How?”

  Esperanza choked. “When you see your mother again.”

  Lazaro squirmed on Esperanza’s lap. He had not cried, because he had not been able to see his mother. But he had touched her face and felt the rigidity. He knew that she no longer breathed because he had listened for such a sound and there was none. Esperanza had tried to explain to him what death was, and that he would never see his mother again, but he was still wrestling with the concept.

  Lucinda looked at Lazaro, her face stitched up with a worried frown.

  “You ought to take
Lazaro to your rooms, Esperanza. There is going to be trouble.”

  “You heard something?”

  “There will be questions asked.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “The disease.”

  “The pox?”

  “Yes. There are suspicions.”

  “Suspicions?”

  “Esperanza, do not question me. I do not want to speak with many ears listening.”

  Esperanza looked at Lazaro, knowing he could not see her. Her expression changed, softened as if her facial muscles were liquid. Then she looked into the eyes of Lucinda and saw the answer there.

  “Yes, yes,” Esperanza sighed.

  “Go. Go quickly.”

  “They have been talking about my mother,” Lazaro said.

  “Shhh,” Lucinda warned. “They will be talking about you, soon. Go, Esperanza. Take Lazaro from this house.”

  Esperanza rose from her chair, her features broken by scrawls of worry that added and deepened the lines already there. She set Lazaro down with a sudden jar to his feet.

  “Protect him,” Lucinda whispered.

  Esperanza nodded and scurried for the back door, dragging Lazaro behind her. Lucinda sighed when she heard the back door shut softly.

  Lucinda began to place the warming dishes on the hot stove, the freshly made tortillas, the beans, the beef. Then she began to chop tomatoes from the garden, and an onion that made her eyes moist with their stinging.

  Footsteps outside the kitchen made her turn in the direction of the door. The men she had heard talking in the front room walked in and she nodded to them. She knew the one better than the other, for he had been to the Baron house many times. The younger man she had met only recently, when he had started to work for Anson. The man with the funny name, Peebo.

  “Lucinda,” Ken Richman said. “Smells good.”

  “Yes,” she said, and continued to chop the onion, her fingers deft with the knife and the onion.

  “Howdy, Lucinda,” Peebo Elves said.

  “We’re early, we know,” Ken said. “But I think the others will be down shortly. Mind if we sit down?”

  “Sit,” Lucinda said.

  “Where’d Esperanza and Lazaro go?” Ken asked.

  “They go to her casita.”

  “Aren’t they staying for lunch?”

  “I do not know,” Lucinda said quickly, and started herding the chopped onions into a pile before placing them in a wooden bowl.

  “Why’d we come in here, Ken?” Peebo asked. “I’m right starved and the smell of the food is clawin’ at my innards.”

  Ken laughed. “You were hungry out in the front room. We’ll eat in here, when Martin, the doc, and Anson come down.”

  “You didn’t want to hear what they were talkin’ about upstairs, right?”

  “Right,” Ken said.

  “It was you who sent for Doc Purvis.”

  “Yes.”

  “Me ’n’ Anson met him and his niece when they were headed for Baronsville.”

  “That wasn’t the only reason I sent for Doc Purvis.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Baronsville needs a doctor. I’m hoping I can get Purvis to move his practice here.”

  “From what I saw of the town, it didn’t look all that crowded.”

  “It’s growing. But there are ranchers to the north and west and east of us, and they have from a dozen to several dozen families living on each ranch. I want them to bring their business to Baronsville. It’s the only way the town is going to grow bigger.”

  “Anson said the town was pretty much your idea.”

  “Mine and Martin’s. And Juanito’s.”

  “Well, if you get Doc Purvis to move there and if his niece stays with her uncle, then you’ll sure as hell make Anson happy.”

  “Lorene?”

  “Yeah. Lorene. A mighty pretty gal.”

  “Yes. I think she would stay. I’ve already offered her a job.”

  “What doin’?”

  “Helping me in my office. The work has gotten to be too much for me to handle alone.”

  “And you got a gal, I hear.”

  “Nancy Grant. The schoolmarm. Yep.”

  “You got a gal for me, Ken?”

  “Well, we’ll just have to look into that, won’t we? I’m sure there’s someone your age in or around Baronsville.”

  Peebo grinned wide. He stretched his legs out under the table and tipped his hat back on his head.

  “I see I got to spend more time in town,” Peebo said.

  “You’re always welcome. But what’s this I hear about you and Anson chasing after some rogue longhorn bull?”

  “Yeah. The white bull. Mexicans are scairt plumb shitless over it and the Apaches give it a wide loop. Anson thinks he can get some big cows with that bull in his pasture.”

  “You’ve seen it, then?”

  “Yeah, we saw it, all right. It’s big and mean. Tore up some Apaches pretty good and done in a horse of mine. It has horns wide as a pair of barn doors. White as a bedsheet.”

  “El Blanco,” Lucinda said, thoughtlessly.

  Ken turned around to look at her. “You’ve heard of this bull, too?”

  “I am sorry. I did not mean to…”

  “No, that’s all right, Lucinda. This bull seems to have quite a reputation.”

  “It is a devil,” Lucinda said. “Un diablo blanco.”

  Lucinda’s face seemed to blanch with fear as Ken stared at her. Then she turned away quickly and began to wipe off the cutting board, clearing away the scraps of tomatoes and onions.

  “Such a bull is a menace,” Ken said. “It ought to be destroyed. It certainly can’t be caught with a rope.”

  “That’s what I’ve been tellin’ Anson. But he thinks he can catch it.”

  “He can find better breed-bulls than that one.”

  “I don’t think it’s worth it to try and catch that white one alive,” Peebo said.

  “I’m surprised you’ve even seen it. A bull like that usually is too wild to even show itself. I think that’s why the Mexicans are superstitious about it.”

  “Well, even if he caught it, I told him, where in hell would he put it? It’s a pure killer, that’s all it is.”

  “Let’s hope the damned thing dies of old age before either you or Anson gets hurt.”

  “Or killed,” Peebo said.

  Out of the corner of his eye Ken saw Lucinda move. When he looked at her, she was crossing herself and her lips were moving in a silent prayer.

  6

  ED WALES, THE new publisher of the Baronsville Bugle, parted the batwing doors of the newly built Longhorn Saloon and stepped inside, letting the doors free to fan on their hinges until they stopped back in place. He blinked his eyes to adjust them to the lesser light of the saloon from the glare of outdoor sunlight. When his pupils had opened wider, he scanned the room until he saw the man he was seeking, sitting in a far corner, his back to the wall, as expected.

  Ed tucked the folded newspaper he held in his hand under his left armpit and walked across the room, avoiding the tables occupied by diners as if walking through an obstacle course. Dishes clattered, glasses tinkled, and eating utensils scraped and clanged on porcelain plates. Some men sat or stood at the long bar to the left of the entrance; waiters and waitresses flowed in and out of a second pair of batwing doors to the rear; while busboys piled empty dishes in wooden bins, pulled soiled tablecloths from deserted tables.

  Allen Oltman did not rise when Wales approached. He touched a finger to his wide-brimmed hat and nodded. Wales knew enough to take one of the side chairs, affording Oltman an unobstructed view of the saloon and its entrance. The two men had met before.

  “Al,” Wales said. “Glad you asked me to lunch.”

  “My pleasure,” Oltman said. “This is quite a town you’ve got here. You can still smell the green lumber, the fresh sawdust. Quite a town. And the bar is new, too, from the looks of it.”

  Ed, hatless, rubbin
g the balding spot on his pate, plucked the newspaper from under his arm and slid it across the table to Oltman. “Hot off the press,” he said. “Ink’s still damp a mite.”

  Oltman unfolded the paper, holding it by its edges. He read the large headline in 72-point Bodoni Bold: UNION TROOPS FLEE TEXAS.

  A subhead declared, “State Militias Formed.”

  Oltman read the first two paragraphs, snorted, then looked Wales square in the eye.

  “Looks like we won’t be invaded from the north, but the Rio Grande is going to be a problem.”

  “Yes. The Union troops are still there.”

  “At least we cleaned out San Antonio.”

  “The Texas Rangers are confiscating arms, taking prisoners.”

  “I wish Houston was still in Austin.”

  “He did all he could.”

  “The Union is broken up for good, I fear.”

  “Texas is a border state. Maybe we won’t have to cross the Mississippi and fight in Virginia.”

  “Texas will fight to preserve the Confederacy.”

  “I know, Al, but this will be a bitter war and it could tear Texas apart just as it already has torn the nation apart.”

  Oltman lifted his hand, caught the eye of the waitress a few tables away. She was the prettiest one in the place and he had kept one eye on her the whole time he’d been waiting for Ed Wales.

  “Hungry?”

  Ed nodded. “I worked all night putting this paper to bed.”

  “Maybe you need a drink.”

  “I want a drink, but I don’t need one. I need some food in me.”

  “Aw, one drink to loosen you up. Your neck’s so tight it’s about to bust a strap.”

  “Well, I guess one won’t hurt. I am pretty wound up.”

  Oltman smiled. “Whiskey?” he asked lightly, but he and Ed passed a look of understanding between them.

  “Do you read minds?”

  Oltman laughed. “I read men.”

  The waitress appeared magically at their table, slate in hand. “Hello, Ed. Need a bill of fare?”