The Baron War

by Jory Sherman

She heard a rifle shot and saw a horse stumble and go down. The rider was unhurt and landed on his feet. The horse kicked its legs for a second or two, then quivered a moment before it lay still. The rider threw himself flat on the ground behind the horse and took up a shooting position, using the horse for cover.

  Esperanza aimed her rifle at him, but she could not steady or level the barrel and she knew she was trembling all over as if she had a fever.

  She heard more shooting from inside the house and voices pitched high in exclamation coming from the other rooms, women’s voices, and then she saw the man behind the house look up at her and turn suddenly and swing his rifle in her direction.

  Esperanza uttered an oath in Spanish and leaned backward, hoping she would not be seen, but she knew it was too late. Her rifle barrel jutted skyward and she could not bring it down. It was as if she was paralyzed and then she saw everything in slow motion: a puff of white smoke drifting across the yard, a horseman racing toward the barn and crossing the path of another, two other riders galloping toward the front of the house, bent low over their horses’ necks, and the man on the ground, taking aim at her. She saw, vividly, a tiny puff of smoke rise from the pan and a split second later she heard the report and saw an orange flame spew from his barrel and tear through a big cloud of smoke as white as cotton, and then the rifle she held stung her hands and began to fly apart. The stock splintered and she felt slivers of wood slash into her face and chest. Then she felt a mighty shock to her left shoulder and the impact stunned her for a moment so that she felt no pain.

  Her rifle fell from her hands and struck the floor with a loud crack and then she spun to her left as the pain in her shoulder burned like a branding fire. She heard Lazaro cry out as she fell to the floor, dizzy from the shock of the ball and bewildered by her sudden fall. She hit hard and dancing lights spun in her head and she knew she cried out, but it sounded like someone else’s voice because her neck hurt so bad now that she was sure it was broken.

  “Esperanza, no!” Lazaro shouted, and she saw a shadow out of the corner of her eye and then he was bending over her and feeling her face.

  “Help me,” she croaked in Spanish, and then saw Lazaro rise up with blood on his hands, his face contorted in fear.

  “Do not die, Esperanza,” the boy said. “I will return with quickness.”

  Then she saw him run away and heard his sandals slapping the floor. She lay there dazed and in pain and wondered if she was going to die before Lazaro brought help.

  I am breathing, she thought. I am alive. I have pain. As long as there is the pain, I am not dead. I must hold on to the pain, as my mother held on to her pain for so long.

  Images of her mother emerged in Esperanza’s mind. She envisioned her on her deathbed with the cholera, the rage of the fever that made her speak without sense, that made her cry out and curse God. That was when fighting such as this had been raging at the mission near San Antonio de Bexar, at the place of the Alamo, when Generalissimo Santa Anna had sent his troops to attack the small number of Americans. She could still hear the roar of the cannon, the rattle of muskets shooting, so many shootings, so many screams, and the bugles sounding like geese high in the sky. And her mother knowing nothing of the big battle, gave in to the pain and the fever drinking her water and her blood until her voice crackled like dry wood on fire.

  She remembered her mother’s eyes, glazed and open, but sightless and yet frozen as if she had been to hell and seen the flames there burning the sinners alive like they were cattle on a spit. She remembered bathing her mother’s shriveled body with cool water and mezcal to keep the fever down and the lucid moments after the bathing when her mother would smile wanly and say that she hurt so bad she knew she must still be alive even though she had been with angels and had seen devils and thought that she must be in Purgatory, atoning for her many sins.

  Her mother lived for many days, lived until they all heard the Mexican army band playing that chilling song, “El Daguello,” and knew that all of the gringos in the mission were doomed. She could still hear the trumpets and the drums and then the cannons—so many cannons—roared, and she heard the charging Mexicans yell as they rushed the Alamo, and so many muskets firing and men screaming, until a deathly silence fell over the river and the plain and the city, and her mother gasped her last breath and slipped out of pain and life with a gentle sigh on her parched lips.

  Before her mother died, however, she had said something to her daughter when they were alone that had stayed in Esperanza’s mind and heart all these years.

  “Daughter,” her mother had said, “I am not afraid to die. I have never been afraid to die. It is the dying that is hard and a thing to be feared, for it is a terrible trial. Yet I know this is God’s way and I am comforted by the thought. I know, because this dying is so hard, that I will not go to hell, nor to Purgatory, nor to Limbo. This is Purgatory, here and now. And I will pass through the flames of my pain and find eternal peace with God. Do not forget this when you come to the river. You will cross it, as will I, and I will be waiting for you on the other side.”

  She heard footsteps pounding up the stairs, voices echoing down the hall. A few seconds later the door to the room burst open and she saw people running toward her. First to reach her was Lucinda, who knelt down and clucked like a mother hen, chattered like a flock of magpies.

  “Oh, Esperanza, what has passed? You are hurt. The doctor is here. Please do not die.”

  “Let me take a look,” Doc Purvis said, and Lucinda moved aside.

  Purvis set his little black bag down and squatted next to Esperanza.

  “Lucinda, stay away from that window,” Esperanza said. She saw Wanda grab Lucinda and pull her away from the window, and Hattie was there, and Ursula, who was holding on to Lazaro’s shoulders. Lazaro was shaking all over as if he had the ague, and Esperanza wanted to reach out to him and take his hand to calm him.

  “Well, I see you have some wood splinters that I can take out,” Purvis said. “And let’s take a look at that shoulder. Hmm.”

  Esperanza cried out in pain as Purvis ripped away the cloth of her blouse and touched the wound in her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can give you some powders for the pain. Doesn’t look too bad. I don’t see a ball in there. Must have hit a glancing blow. No bones broken that I can see.”

  Lorene leaned over the doctor’s shoulder to look at Esperanza. “Do you want me to get some hot water, Uncle Pat?”

  “No, I’ll clean the wound with alcohol. One of you bring me a glass of water. Hurry.”

  “I’ll get it,” Hattie said, and ran from the room.

  The firing outside continued, with shots sounding like pops or cracks, and sometimes they could hear the whine of a ricochet. Ursula pulled Lazaro down closer to the floor and Wanda and Lucinda squatted below the windowsill.

  “I shot someone,” Esperanza said, and crossed herself with her right hand.

  “I think I did, too,” Wanda said. “But there was so much smoke and dust.”

  “It’s a terrible thing,” Lorene said, “neighbors fighting like this. I don’t see any sense in it.”

  “Matteo is a skunk,” Ursula said. “I know. Me and Davey lived with him on his ranch. He’s a mean person.”

  Purvis soaked a cloth with alcohol. The fumes made Esperanza gasp for breath and the others turned their heads away until the air cleared. Hattie returned with the glass of water and Purvis poured some powder in it, shook the glass until all the grains had dissolved.

  “Here,” he said to Esperanza, “drink this. I’ll hold the glass. Can someone bring a pillow from that bed there? And I’ll need help carrying her over there once I’ve cleaned her wound.”

  Purvis held the glass while Esperanza let the cloudy liquid flow into her mouth and down her throat. He made her drink it all and then Wanda handed him a pillow from the bed. He placed it under Esperanza’s head, gently arranging it so that she was comfortable.

  “Feel better?�
� Purvis asked.

  “Yes. There is not so much pain now.”

  “Good. Now, I’m going to take these wood splinters out. You will feel some stinging. Then I am going to wash your shoulder in alcohol and put some medicine on it. Then you are going to bed and you are going to sleep.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” she said.

  “Is she going to die?” Lazaro asked.

  “No, she’s not going to die,” Purvis said, and picked a pair of tweezers from his bag and began to search out the wood splinters embedded in Esperanza’s face and chest.

  “What’s that?” Lorene said, standing up. “Downstairs.”

  They all listened. Purvis held the tweezers poised over a splinter.

  “My god,” Wanda said. “Mother, go and see.”

  “There’s no need, daughter. They’ve set the house on fire.”

  Then they all heard it, the crackling of flames from somewhere down below, on the ground level of the house. Their eyes widened and their features became drawn with fear.

  “Quick,” Purvis said, “Lorene, you take this woman’s feet and lift her up. I’ll get the head. One of you get my bag and put everything in it. We must hurry.”

  “I’ll help lift Esperanza,” Hattie said.

  “I will help,” Lucinda said, and they lifted Esperanza up and started carrying her toward the door. Ursula packed Purvis’s bag and then grabbed Lazaro’s hand. She led him off, both of them stumbling to catch up to the others.

  At the top of the stairs, the roar of the flames was very loud. A window cracked and as they descended to the foyer, they saw that the living room was filled with smoke. As they walked toward the front door, they saw flames shooting from the porch through the windows of the front room.

  Soon all of them were enclosed in black smoke. And they all felt the heat rushing toward them. Lucinda screamed.

  “We’ve got to get out,” Purvis said. “Fast.”

  “How?” Lorene wailed.

  The front room was snarling with flames and the walls bristled with fire that crackled and gulped oxygen and began to stream across the ceiling. The fire began to roar with its own terrible voice and the women began to cough.

  Esperanza struggled in the grasp of those who carried her.

  “Let me up,” she said. “I will show you the way to get out.”

  And then the entire ceiling in the front room became engulfed in flames and they could no longer see the front door, nor any passage out of that place where they all stood frozen in fear and choking on the black smoke and weeping as their lungs began to burn.

  One of the beams fell with a crash and scattered sparks in every direction. Hattie batted at her clothes to put out the tiny winking coals and Lucinda began to pray in Spanish.

  “We are going to die,” Lucinda said.

  And Lazaro began to cry softly as the flames roared in his ears like the thundering voices of unnamed and unknown gods.

  42

  KEN RICHMAN LOOKED up from his drink when the three men entered the Longhorn Saloon. From their dusters, he knew they had ridden a long way, and from their faces he knew they were tired. From the looks in their eyes, he knew they were hunting someone.

  The first man looked vaguely familiar to Ken, but he couldn’t place him in his mind with anyone he knew or had met. The other two were slightly younger. They all carried rifles such as Ken had never seen before, shorter than the Kentucky rifle, but longer than the mountain carbines, and smooth, without flintlocks.

  Nancy Grant, who was sitting with Ken, looked up, too, and stared at the three men, who stood there, just inside the batwings, surveying the large room. There were only two people at the bar, one of them Ed Wales, the other, his typesetter, Jim Callan.

  “Who’re they?” Nancy asked, looking at the big Waterbury clock on the wall. It was nearly midnight and she and Ken were both weary from a long day, their late-supper dishes long since cleared away.

  “I don’t know,” Ken said. “But I’ll find out.”

  He pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. The first man through the door saw him and strode his way. He was not a tall man, under six feet, but he looked solid under the duster, on the lean side, with a smooth-shaven face, dark hair that had grown long and had begun to curl a few inches from his shoulders. His eyes were brown and he had a straight nose, and bee-stung lips that were cracked as if he had not had water in a long time.

  “You Richman?” the man said.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I was told to look you up. I’m Kenny Darnell.”

  “Caroline’s brother?”

  “Yes. I’m looking for Al Oltman. He said he’d be here.”

  “Did you know…”

  “Yes, I know my sis died. Have you seen Oltman?”

  “Bring your men over to my table and I’ll buy you drinks. Al’s not here.”

  Ken turned to walk back to his table. He heard Darnell’s boots on the hardwood floor. He pulled another chair over to the table as Darnell waved at his men to come over. He sat down, and looked at Nancy Grant. She returned his frank stare and smiled.

  “Ma’am,” Darnell said. He touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “Kenny Darnell.”

  “Nancy Grant,” she said.

  “Sorry about your sister, Darnell. She had a nice funeral.”

  “Thanks.” Darnell’s men came up. He turned to them. “Boys, this is Mr. Richman and Miss Grant. Richman, shake hands with Dan Shepley and Jim-Joe Casebolt. Boys, you go on over to the bar and order what you like.”

  “The drinks are on me,” Richman said.

  “Obliged,” said Shepley, as he shook Ken’s hand. Casebolt just nodded and headed for the bar.

  Richman signaled to the bartender. “What’ll you have, Kenny?” he asked.

  “Water would be fine.” He leaned his rifle against the table, within easy reach.

  “You haven’t seen Martin, I gather.”

  “No, I knew Sis had died. Got a message from Oltman down to Corpus. I had other business. I haven’t seen Martin much since he married my sis.”

  “You’re a Texas Ranger,” Ken said.

  Darnell nodded. Richman lifted his hands and made a pumping motion to the barkeep. Then he held up two fingers and swirled them in the air. The barkeep nodded and took drink orders from Shepley and Casebolt.

  “Did you come to Baronsville to pay your respects to your sister?” Nancy asked.

  “Partly,” Darnell said. “But I’ve got other business here as well.” Darnell’s jaw tightened and a muscle quivered next to his chin. “Where’d you say Al Oltman was, Mr. Richman?”

  “Call me Ken. He’s at the Box B. Martin is expecting an attack on his ranch in the morning.”

  Darnell’s forehead wrinkled above his eyebrows. “You don’t say.”

  “Afraid so. Do you know Matteo Aguilar?”

  Darnell nodded.

  “Matteo’s got a wild hair up his rump about the land Martin bought from the family. Wants it back, I guess.”

  “Aguilar’s plumb loco,” Darnell said.

  “I think you’re right,” Ken said. “Say, that’s a mighty fine looking rifle you’ve got there. I’ve never seen one like it.”

  “It’s a Spencer repeater,” Darnell said. “A new make. Shoots right good. We got ’em from the army. I got one on my saddle for Oltman.”

  The bartender came over to the table, bearing a tray. He set a glass of water in front of Darnell, a whiskey at Ken’s spot, and a glass of sarsaparilla at Nancy’s place.

  “Thanks,” Ken said.

  Darnell drank most of the water in his glass, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Then he reached inside his pocket and pulled out an oilpouch. “Haven’t seen a Frenchie in town, have you, Ken? Name of Jules Reynaud. From New Orleans.”

  “I’ve never seen the man, but I know who he is. He’s in with Matteo.”

  “I know,” Darnell said. “I’m just surprised he’s still in cahoots with Aguilar. Them two mix about as well as f
ire and coal oil.”

  “Why do you ask about Reynaud?”

  “In this packet here,” Darnell said, tapping on the oilskin, “I’ve got warrants for both Jules Reynaud and Matteo Aguilar.”

  Ken, about to take a sip of whiskey, stopped the rising arc of his hand and the glass. “Warrants?”

  “Reynaud’s a slave trader and there’s solid evidence he smuggled slaves out of New Orleans and drug ’em up to the Rocking A.”

  “Yes, I know. Martin took those Negroes away from Matteo and set them free. Some are living here in town, some are at the Box B, and Roy Killian has a couple, I believe.”

  “I don’t care what happened to those slaves, Ken. I’m just going to put Reynaud and Aguilar in the juzgado for trafficking and stealing ’em.”

  “You’ve got your work cut out for you, Kenny.”

  “I aim to do it.”

  Nancy sipped at her sarsaparilla and watched Darnell in rapt fascination. “Are you married, Mr. Darnell?” she asked.

  “It’s Kenny, ma’am. And no, I’m not. Why do you ask?”

  “Because you have a dangerous job and I would think a wife would worry about you.”

  “Yes’m, I reckon she would if I had one. Rangerin’ takes up a heap of time.”

  “Were you and Caroline close?”

  “Not after she got married; and a lot less after our folks died.”

  “How did they die?” Nancy asked.

  “It wasn’t natural. That’s another charge on Aguilar and a separate warrant on him.” Darnell patted the packet again. “‘Inciting Apaches to steal and murder.’”

  “I didn’t hear about that,” Nancy said, looking at Richman. “Is that true, Ken?”

  “Martin always thought Cuchillo was in Matteo’s pay, and Anson says that Cuchillo’s son, Culebra, is working for Aguilar. Says that Matteo gives him and his savages cattle and horses to make raids on the Box B. That’s the charge. Apaches killed our folks, Miss Grant,” Darnell said.

  “Please. Call me Nancy.”

  “I’ll go after Culebra after I put Aguilar and Reynaud behind bars,” Darnell said.

  “Are you going to stay a Ranger, or join the Confederate Army?” Nancy asked.