by Jory Sherman
She squeezed his hand extra hard and Martin’s eyes widened. She smiled at him.
“You know where you can find me,” she said, and pulled her hand away.
Before Martin could say anything, Millie had turned on her heel and walked away, toward the buggy that had brought her and some others out from town.
She could feel Martin’s eyes on her and she put a little extra sway into her hips. She hid the smile that was playing on her lips, for she did not want to look too cheerful at a funeral and raise questions in anyone’s minds as to her reason for attending the solemn ceremony.
But inside, she was grinning wide and wanted to jump and shout for joy.
I’ll be seeing you soon, Martin Baron, she said to herself. You don’t know it, but you need me.
As if Millie’s leaving were a cue, the crowd began to break apart and people starting leaving, saying good-bye to Martin. Martin looked around, but he didn’t see Anson.
Doc Purvis was the last to stop by. “If you see my niece Lorene, will you see that she gets to town, Mr. Baron?”
“Oh, do you know where she went?”
“I believe she is with your son, Anson. According to that man over there.” Purvis pointed to Peebo Elves, who was picking over the food at one of the tables.
“I will surely do that, Doc. Thanks for coming.”
“You take care, Mr. Baron.”
Martin watched as Purvis joined Al Oltman. Al waved good-bye and soon all that were left were Roy, Wanda, Hattie, Ursula and David, Peebo, and the two black men. He walked to the house alone, feeling oddly detached, as if none of what had happened this day or the previous ones, was real.
And he wondered where Anson had gone with that niece of Purvis’s, whose name he could not remember.
All he could think of was Millie. Millicent Collins. And he tried to remember everything she had done when she had waited on him in the Longhorn Saloon, every move, every word she had spoken, every inflection in her voice.
And he cursed himself for not thinking only of Caroline, already cold in her grave.
16
ANSON KNOCKED LIGHTLY on the door to his father’s room. He heard a muffled voice, but could not make out the words. He lifted the latch. It was free and the door swung open on leather hinges.
“Pa?”
“Anson?”
The room was dark, but Anson could make out the silhouette of his father. Martin was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to Anson, facing the star-filled window to the sky. The stars flickered like the far-off lights of a city and the wind that had sprung up in the afternoon was whispering through the branches of the trees outside.
“I come to say good-bye,” Anson said. He heard a series of sobs from his father and something caught in Anson’s throat as he realized Martin was weeping. He had never seen his father cry before, except at the funeral, and that wasn’t really crying, not out loud, like this.
“You goin’ somewhere?”
“Yeah, me and Peebo are headin’ out toward the Nueces in a while.”
“Christ, it’s darker’n the inside of a coal pit.”
“And by sunup, it’ll be boilin’ hot.”
“I wish I were going with you.”
“Come on.”
“You know I can’t. That bastard Matteo.”
“Yeah.”
“You get that gal back where she belongs?”
“I rode her into town, packin’ double on Jake.”
“That old horse?”
“He’s slow, all right.” Anson grinned in the darkness.
“I miss your mother, Anson.”
“I miss her too.”
“There’s a big empty place where she was. I can’t go into her room without breakin’ down. I keep thinkin’ she’ll be in there.”
“I know. You’ve got to get over it, Pa.”
“I don’t know if I ever will. I keep thinkin’ of all the things I wanted to say to her; all the things I should have said.”
“You can’t go back. You can’t go back and undo things. You have to go on ahead.”
“Yeah, true. I hope she’s happy where she is.”
“She was happy where she was. She put a lot of stock in you, Pa. You can’t help who you are and neither could she.”
“I keep thinkin’…”
Anson cut him off. “You can’t do that no more, Pa. Look, I come to tell you something before I ride out.”
“What?”
“You talk to Esperanza. No, you go see her, first light, and listen to what she has to say.”
“Esperanza?”
“I done had a talk with her. She’s got something on her chest she wants to tell you.”
“Excuses.”
Anson shook his head. “No excuses. She knows somethin’ you got to know.”
“Can’t you tell me?”
“I think you better hear it from her.”
“Why?”
“From me, it’d be secondhand, Pa.”
Martin stirred on the bed. He stood up. Anson could see him touch a pair of fingers to his eyes, rub them downward. “I can’t talk to her right away, son. I’ve got too much in my craw about that blind boy.”
“That’s why you got to talk to her.”
“I—I’ll think on it.”
“Pa, you’re carryin’ too much on your shoulders right now. She can help you get rid of some of it.”
Martin walked over to Anson. The room was still pitch-dark. Anson could not see his father’s face, his eyes. He wanted to leave before he said anymore, before he said too much.
“Anson, you’ve got a good heart and good sense. But this is somethin’ you can’t help with none. I know your ma was not right in the head a long time before she died and I can forgive her. But I can’t…”
“Pa, I’ve got to go. I know how Ma was. You don’t have to forgive her for nothin’. You have to forgive yourself for a lot, though. A hell of a lot.”
“You’re mad, aren’t you?”
“No. I just think you’re letting something eat at your innards that ain’t doin’ you no good. You got to … well, I ain’t goin’ to tell you what you got to do. I gotta be goin’.”
“Are you going after that white bull?”
Anson sucked in a breath, let it out slow. “If I see him, I aim to bring him down. He’s good stock.”
“Is that white bull more important to you than the Box B, Anson?”
“Huh?” Anson’s head jerked backward in surprise.
“If Matteo beats me, you could lose this ranch.”
“He won’t beat you. Unless you let him.”
“What in hell is that supposed to mean?”
“If you mean to beat Matteo, you will, and my being here won’t make no difference.”
“Two extra hands might make a hell of a difference. I don’t know how many men Matteo is bringing with him, but I’m sure it’s a sight more’n I have here.”
“Peebo says that Ranger feller is throwin’ in with you.”
“Oltman? That’s one man, and I don’t know if he can fight as well as you. Or Peebo.”
“I’m sure the Rangers didn’t pick him ’cause he was a hand at growin’ pansies.”
“That’s not the point, Anson. A man fights for what is his, for what’s rightfully his. Your ma turned the ranch over to you while I was away that time, and now you’re walking away, turning your back on it.”
“Pa, we’ve gone over all this before. If I didn’t think you could handle Matteo, I’d stay here and pin his ears back. I’m not walking away; I’m doing ranch business, and the business of the Box B is raising cattle. I’m not going to let Matteo stop me from doing my business.”
“You might come back with that white bull and there won’t be any ranch here to keep him on.”
“Do you really believe that, Pa?”
Martin did not answer for several seconds. He stood there, his face invisible to Anson, like some shadowy presence, mute, unfathomable as stone.
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“I don’t know what I believe anymore, Anson. When Caroline died, it felt like the whole world caved in on me. I guess I’m not handling it very well. I mean, when Cackle Jack died, I was heartbroken, but I watched him die, like I watched my own pa die. And I saw my own ma killed by Shawnees and, at the time, I wished they had killed me, too. I couldn’t bear losing my ma, and it was torture watching my pa die, slow, like Cackle Jack. And I grieved when Juanito died, too. I hated myself because I had wronged him and he was a good man. But there were reasons I could see in my mind why Ma and Pa, Cackle Jack and Juanito died. Reasons I could see plain. But with your ma, it seems like she was taken away so quick and so young and for no good reason. And I couldn’t see it coming.”
“Or else you just didn’t look,” Anson said.
“Huh?”
“She was your wife. You should have been close enough to her so that she would have told you she was dying.”
“I don’t think she knew.”
“She knew, Pa. She had to know.”
“She say anything to you?”
“Not directly. But I knew she was scared, deathly scared of something. Something she couldn’t see, neither.”
“Oh Christ,” Martin said, and his voice was full of anguish and bewilderment and anger. “Oh sweet Christ. I couldn’t see it coming. I just thought…”
“You thought she was addled. Or worse.”
“I—I guess so.”
“Well, she was. And now we know why. Doc Purvis said that the disease affects the brain in its final stages.”
“It must have been horrible for Caroline. I can’t stand to think of her dying like that and me not being able to help.”
“You can’t help what can’t be helped. Stop blaming yourself.”
“I know who to blame.”
“No, you don’t. Pa, I’ve got to go. You talk to Esperanza. Then you’ll know who to blame for Ma’s death.”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Why should I believe a Mexican maid?”
“She’s a person, Pa. And Esperanza doesn’t lie. She’s very religious and she would not tell such a lie. She’s very upset and worried about you.”
“All right. It’s the least I can do, I reckon.”
Anson saluted his father and turned to leave. “I’ll be seeing you, Pa. Good luck.”
“Good-bye, son.”
Anson hurried out of the room. He was wringing-wet with sweat, his palms clammy. He had wanted to put his arms around his father and give him a good squeeze, but he felt that was not the manly thing to do. But he could feel his father’s grief in that room, thick as a hair coat, scratching his own hide, threatening to envelop him. He had had to get away from Martin before he broke down himself and shouted out all he knew about his mother’s death and all the blame still at his father’s feet, even so, and some at his own. But none of that would have done any good; none of his own feelings would have helped his father through this bad time.
Anson needed air to breathe after being in the claustrophobic room with his father, and the wide space of the sky to clear his thoughts and his head. Juanito had told him that he would always find peace away from people, out on the plain or in the woods, with nature.
“Look to the sky,” Juanito had said. “Know that you are part of it, and that it is part of you. That is where you will find comfort when the times are bad.”
Outside, in the dark, he looked up at the stars and felt the breeze wash his face, warm it like a soothing hand.
“Come on, Anson,” yelled Peebo from the darkness near the barn. “We need to be burnin’ daylight, son. I thought you was never goin’ to come out of that house.”
“Hold your horses, Peebo. You’ll wish you were back here before this day is done.”
“Son, I can’t wait to see that white bull again. I want to measure them horns with my own two hands.”
Anson saw Peebo’s silhouette emerge out of the shadowy dark of the barn. He was holding their horses by the bridles, and they were tossing their heads and stroking the ground with their forehooves.
“I hope you filled those boys with water,” Anson said.
“They ain’t camels, son. They drank what they wanted to drink.”
“Well, let’s go find that bull, then.”
“We’ve got enough rope to stretch from the Rio to the Nueces, that’s for danged sure.”
Anson took his horse from Peebo and mounted him. He had to hold him in to keep the animal from going into a spate of bucking. Peebo climbed aboard his horse and had the same problem.
“Frisky, ain’t they?”
“Peebo, these horses are plumb tame for this time of day.”
“Why, sure,” Peebo said, and Anson could see his grin in the dark, like a miniature picket fence, all whitewashed and dazzling.
“Packhorses ready?” Anson asked.
“They’re hobbled up on the flat, loaded down with grub and such, a pair of branding irons, water.”
“You done good, Peebo.”
“Just the two of us?”
“No, we’ll need other hands. I told Lucero to get five other hands and meet us at a place he knows. We put up a lean-to there last year and some of the boys made it into a right good jacal. So we got us a line camp this side of the Nueces, not far from where we last saw El Blanco.”
“Sounds as if you thought of everything.”
Anson didn’t say when Lucero and the other men would meet them. Nor did he tell Peebo he had something else to do before they rode out to the line shack.
He ticked his horse’s flanks with his spurs and felt the surge of power between his legs as the horse jumped into a fast trot. He closed his eyes so that he would not look at the house to see if a lamp was burning in the upstairs bedroom where his father and he had talked.
When the horse started to climb the slope in front of the house, heading east, Anson opened his eyes, and it seemed, as they topped the rise, that he was riding into a field of stars, and he felt his spirit rise to the heavens, to safety and a calm peace that was almost beyond comprehension.
17
THE LONGHORN SALOON was nearly deserted at that early hour. Yet Ken Richman had given orders that the restaurant be opened at dawn every morning to serve those early risers like himself. But he was not there that morning after the funeral at the Box B. There were only one or two diehards at the bar, two Mexicans at one table near the front window, a drummer who had arrived the night before on the stage from Galveston at another, three unshaven men of unknown reputation at one of the back tables, and, in the center, three women and two men who had been there at first light.
Roy Killian pushed his chair away from the table in the Longhorn Saloon. He was the first to finish his breakfast and he’d hurried so that he would be. Wanda looked up from her plate, fixed Roy with a withering stare.
“You gulped your food down, Roy.”
“I’ve got a lot to do.”
Hattie, a forkful of frijoles refritos suspended in midair, glared at Roy in defense of her daughter. Ursula lifted her head as if roused from sleep by the sudden conversation that had sprung up around her. David worked a half-eaten biscuit through the beef drippings on his plate. He had eaten his food nearly as fast as Roy.
“If you ask me,” Hattie said, “you’re messing in something that’s none of our business, Roy.”
“Mama,” Wanda said.
“No, I mean it. Roy’s got better things to do than get involved with Martin Baron and his affairs.”
“David, you comin’ with me?” Roy said.
“Yes.”
“You too?” Hattie said. “My, it seems everyone in this country kowtows to Martin Baron.”
“Mama,” Wanda said again, “Roy promised, and David wants to help. Ursula doesn’t mind, do you, Ursula?”
“We owe Martin a lot,” Ursula said, looking at David for support. He avoided her gaze.
“You’ve go
t your own ranch to look after, Roy,” Hattie persisted. “What happens with Martin Baron is not of your concern.”
Wanda opened her mouth to say something, but Roy spoke first. “What happens to one of us, happens to all of us, Hattie. Martin needs some things done and I told him I’d do them. Now, you and Wanda and Ma can have the whole day to yourselves to shop and whatnot. Good-bye, Ma.”
Roy leaned over and gave his mother a peck on the cheek. David, sallow-faced, merely nodded at Ursula and the other two ladies.
“Well, I swan,” Hattie said. “Roy didn’t hear a word I said.”
“He heard you, Mama,” Wanda said. “I’m sure he agrees with you, but a promise is a promise.”
“Roy’s as good as his word,” Ursula said.
“Hmmph,” snorted Hattie, and glared after the two men as they left the Longhorn.
“Ursula, how do you feel about your husband and son helping Martin Baron fight his battles?”
Ursula, caught off-guard by the question, hesitated. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin and then put her hands below the table, on her lap, so the others could not see that they were starting to tremble.
“Martin got my first husband killed,” Ursula said.
“What?” Wanda leaned over the table toward Ursula.
“Jack was a drifter,” Ursula said. “Always riding off somewhere. I had to practically raise Roy by myself. I guess my husband didn’t always obey the law, but, deep down, he was a good man. And I loved him.”
“So, what happened?” Hattie asked, all aflutter with eagerness. “What did Martin do to your husband?”
“I don’t know the whole story,” Ursula said, “but somehow Jack wound up on the Box B, working for Martin Baron. Jack came to see us, Roy and me, in Fort Worth. He took Roy with him back to the Baron spread. Next thing I knew, Jack was dead and Roy was under Martin’s thumb.”
“You don’t think Martin killed your husband, do you?” Wanda asked. “I mean…”
“I—I don’t know. I’ve heard that Martin took a dislike to Jack. Perhaps…”
“Perhaps what?” Hattie said, an insistent tone in her voice.
“Well, maybe Martin put Jack in harm’s way. You know, just to get rid of him. I mean, Jack was pretty smart and I sometimes thought he might wind up being hanged for horse-thieving, but Martin said Apaches killed Jack.”
