The Baron War

by Jory Sherman

  He stood up and started edging toward the back of his house. He passed Socrates huddled behind one of the box elm trees, shivering with fear, his machete clutched tightly with both hands as if for support.

  He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and when he turned, Martin saw three riders following the fenceline. He saw them through the haze of mist and drifting smoke and the lingering fog of early morning. But the sun caught the riders and he saw they were not Mexicans. A moment later they disappeared and then he heard rapid firing from their direction and Mexicans crying out in pain, yelling in Spanish, and heard them trying to ride away from the firing on horses until the hoofbeats, too, died away.

  One of the riders had looked familiar, but he could not place him. They all wore white dusters and looked like ghosts, and after he had reached the end of the house he thought he might have imagined them. He thought he might have imagined those, too, in the heat of battle. The mind could play tricks on a man, he knew.

  Martin paused at the storm shelter, a mound of earth with a door leading to a cellar dugout. Caroline and the women often went there in dust storms or when the sky looked funny to them in tornado season. Caroline often went there to clean out the cobwebs and rotate the stored foodstuffs and water. Opposite, on the side of the house, was another door, an opening cut in the skirts he had put up to keep the cold wind out from under the house. There was a trapdoor inside the house, in back of the stairwell, that would let them drop down underneath the house in bad weather and, if they hunched over, they could walk to that door and get to the storm cellar. The house was raised on blocks for air space beneath. He caught his breath there by the mound of earth and tried to push thoughts of Caroline out of his mind.

  Quickly Martin ran to the front of the house along the back wall, and that’s when he heard a sound that made his throat tighten with fear and roiled the bile in his stomach. As he turned the corner, he saw flames licking the front wall and spreading to the porch.

  Flames licked at his face as he stepped around the corner. There was little fog where he stood, and no smoke. He saw a man toss a torch in through one of the front windows, then run back to the fire that was burning just in front of the porch. Other men were there, and their horses stood nearby, next to a large live oak.

  Then Martin looked up and saw two men scrambling up the slope, up out of the smoke. At first he thought they were two of Matteo’s men, heading for high ground. Then he looked more closely and saw them kneel down. A second or two later, both men fired. He saw one man at the fire, jerk and fall headfirst into the fire. Another man took a ball on the steps and fell.

  Now Martin saw that Peebo and Anson were the men on the slope, but just then the other Mexicans abandoned the fire and caught up their horses. Five of them started charging up the slope after Peebo and Anson.

  Martin spread his legs wide and took a bracing stance. He brought his rifle up quickly and brought the front sight down on the back of a rider pulling away to flank his son and Peebo. He squeezed the trigger and the man threw his arms straight up in the air as the ball caught him square in the back. His rifle went flying overhead and tumbled downward. The man clutched at his saddlehorn, but did not have the grip to hold on, and tumbled from the saddle.

  Two of the riders turned to look back. Martin began to reload quickly, as one of them turned and trained his rifle on him. He tried to shut the man out of his mind as he poured powder down the barrel and dug out a patch and ball from his possibles pouch.

  He heard screams and voices from inside the house that churned his blood, turned it cold. Then, there were poundings and crashes that made his heart squeeze into a knotted fist as he finished seating patch and ball. He looked up, and the rider was no more than fifty yards away, eating up ground fast as he charged straight at Martin.

  Martin sidled to his left, shifting his position from complete exposure to a place behind a small elm that afforded only a minimum amount of cover if he stood sideways and flattened himself out. He brought his rifle up and steadied against the six-inch trunk of the tree and drew a bead on the advancing horseman. The Mexican reined his horse into a hard turn, then reined him over the other way in that familiar zigzag pattern Martin had come to know so well.

  Martin followed his course, however, and just as the rider was pulling the horse over for another turn, he led him slightly and squeezed the trigger. The horse was less than twenty yards away when the ball caught the rider in the left lung. The impact twisted the attacker violently to the left as blood spurted from the dark hole in his shirt. His rifle slipped from his hand and clattered on the ground as the horse twisted in the turn and ran out from under the wounded man, leaving him to fall crashing to the ground. The smoke from his rifle blinded Martin to the other riders charging up on Peebo and Anson’s position, but he stepped from behind the elm tree and batted the smoke away with his hands.

  He heard several shots and saw puffs of smoke well up the slope, but he could not make out where Peebo and Anson were, at that moment. He began to pour powder down the barrel of his rifle as he trotted to a new position, but there was so much smoke around the house, and fog, that still he could see nothing happening on high ground.

  The house was now in full blaze, and as he turned to look at it, the sidewall blew out at him. He heard a loud roar and felt the rush of furnace-hot air blast him even as the gust knocked him to the ground.

  He felt searing pain as sparks and embers struck his face and neck and he started to roll out of the way, when he saw a fiery beam falling toward him. He dropped his rifle and lifted his arms to ward off the impending blow and then he felt a sharp blow to his head.

  Everything went black as Martin lost his senses. Somewhere, far away, he heard someone yelling and something creaking and then there was only the silence and the blackness.

  45

  ESPERANZA STRUGGLED TO stay on her feet as she fought her way through the smoke and flying sparks. She felt weak from the loss of blood, giddy, and the heat in the blazing house was unbearable. Beams were falling from the ceiling, and sparks and jets of flame seemed to be shooting at her from every quarter. She threw her right arm up to shield her eyes as she fought through the choking smoke to lead the others, who were following her, to a place behind the stairwell.

  “Hurry, you must hurry!” Esperanza shouted in English and she felt the others bunch up behind her and push her through the smothering smoke. The fire had not reached into the den, the kitchen, or the other rooms beyond the front ones, and she ducked under the stairwell and grabbed Dr. Purvis by the sleeve and pointed to the floor.

  “What is it?” he said, his voice harsh from breathing smoke.

  “Open,” she said. “Quick, quick.”

  Purvis bent down and saw the trapdoor. He felt around for a handle as the heat intensified. He could hear the house collapsing, and the lick of flames on the ceiling was terrifying.

  “There, there!” Lucinda said, crowding in. “The handle. Pull it. Pull it!”

  Purvis found the countersunk handle and lifted up on it. The door opened upward and a blast of fresh air arose from the dankness of the ground below the house.

  “Go down,” Esperanza said, pointing her finger at the opening in the floor.

  “No, you go down first,” Purvis said. “Show us the way.”

  “I have much pain, much hurt.”

  “Go,” Purvis said. “Now.”

  He gently pushed her and she squatted, dangled both legs over the floor’s edge. Purvis held her hands and she slid off the flooring and down beneath the house. Then she crumpled to her right side and lay there whimpering in pain.

  “Lorene, go down there quickly,” Purvis said. “We don’t have much time before the fire reaches us.”

  “Yes, yes,” Lucinda said, and pulled Lorene toward her. She pushed the young woman toward the opening and Purvis helped his niece descend.

  “Take care of Esperanza,” he said.

  “Take Lazaro,” Lucinda told the doctor. “Help
him down. He is blind.”

  “Yes, I know. Ursula, hand me the boy.”

  “Here he is,” Ursula said, shoving Lazaro past Lucinda and Hattie.

  Lorene reached upward for Lazaro as her uncle and Lucinda lowered him through the trapdoor. She was surprised at how light he was, and she eased him down. Esperanza took the boy’s hand and led him away from the opening.

  Wanda and Hattie were next to slide down through the trapdoor.

  “Come,” Lucinda said to Ursula. “I will be last.”

  “No, I’ll go last, Lucinda,” Purvis said. “Come on, Ursula. I’ll help you down. It’s not much of a drop.”

  “Thanks,” Ursula said, and stepped up to him and looked down at the darkness. Her face was smudged and the doctor slapped out a small spark that had caught in her light hair. He smelled the odor of burning locks. “Thanks again,” she said, and squatted down. She sat, and Lucinda took her left arm, Purvis her right, and she scooched herself over the edge and touched ground as Lorene helped steady her.

  “Now you, Lucinda,” Purvis said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Yes,” she said, and sat down, swung her legs around and let them drop through the open space. Purvis got behind her and put his arms through hers as he bent down. He felt her weight as she pushed off her perch and then he slipped his arms free as Lorene and Ursula helped her the rest of the way.

  Flames raced toward Purvis and he threw up an arm to shield himself from the blazing heat as a wall of fire slammed into the staircase and began eating at its structure. Tongues of flame curled around the steps and down underneath and Purvis knew it would only be a matter of minutes before the entire stairway was engulfed in flames. Then the entire staircase would come crashing down over the trapdoor opening.

  Quickly he dropped to the floor and reached back for his medical bag. “Lorene, take my bag,” he said. He reached down and put it into his niece’s outstretched hands. “Watch out,” he said. “Here I come.”

  Just then he heard a sickening screech and looked at the underside of the stairs. They seethed with writhing, serpentine tongues of flames that lashed at the wood, flames of blue and orange and bloodred hues, as if borne from some devil’s pyre, some boiling-hot hell.

  Purvis heard the terrible screech of the joints giving way and, just as he slid downward, the entire staircase, a mass of flaming wood, started to descend in slow motion toward him like some holocaustal gate slamming shut on souls destined for some eternal torture by fire. As his feet touched the earth, the stairs crashed to the floor, sealing the exit, spewing sparks and firebrands and twisting, spinning coals down into the midst of them. Lucinda screamed and Lorene gasped as she grabbed her uncle’s hand and pulled him out of the way just after the staircase landed with a solid thundering smack that echoed through the remaining downstairs rooms of the house. His clothes sparkled with coals and the smell of burning hair filled the dark underbelly of the house.

  “Come quick,” Esperanza yelled, and Purvis saw her running, hunched over, toward the back of the house. He and Lorene slapped at his clothes to smother the sparks eating away at the threads of his coat and trousers.

  The ragged line of people, all bent over except for Lazaro, followed Esperanza as smoke filled the space beneath the house. Purvis saw glimmers of dull light at the end of the house, streamers leaking through the skirting in thin beams and shafts.

  Then a door opened and light streamed in and he saw Esperanza dash through and turn to grasp Lazaro’s hand and pull him outside. Then, one by one, the others bolted through the opening and, finally, he was standing outside, next to a mound that he saw was a storm cellar, and he was gulping air into his lungs and clinging to his physician’s satchel with one hand and searching for a tiny spark in his hair that was burning into his scalp.

  “Look,” Esperanza said, “there is Don Martín, and he is hurt.”

  Purvis saw Martin stretched out on the ground, next to a burning ceiling beam, and he started running toward him. The others, all except Lorene and Ursula, who followed after him, stood there huddled next to the storm cellar.

  He turned and yelled at them as he reached the corner of the house. “Get into that storm cellar, quick!”

  Esperanza leaned down and jerked the door open.

  “I’m not going down there,” Hattie said.

  “Oh yes you are, Mother,” Wanda said, and pushed Hattie toward the entrance. Esperanza shooed the others inside just as flames began to shoot from the back wall. She looked up at it and saw that the roof was on fire and the flames were racing along the eaves, consuming the entire length of the slanted roof. Huge flames lashed out from the windows and, now, fire blazed beneath the house in that place they had just left.

  “Get inside,” Purvis called again, and then the entire wall began to explode and fall toward the place where Esperanza stood. Smoke spewed from every corner of the house and the engulfing flames swallowed everything outside in Purvis’s line of sight. He could not tell if Esperanza had gone down into the cellar, nor if she had managed to close the door before the wall crashed over it and sparks flew into the surrounding trees like little winking messengers of death, airborne like fireflies, against the backdrop of billowing smoke.

  “He’s out cold,” Ursula said.

  “We’ve got to get him away from here,” Purvis said. “Lorene, grab his feet. Ursula, you take him by the shoulders. I’ll get him in the middle.”

  Fire raged so close, their skins began to dry out and turn hot as they lifted Martin from the ground. Quickly they moved away from the blazing house and the nearby trees. The burning structure roared and screamed like some dying thing, and when they got to an open place, away from the heat, Purvis stopped and released his one arm support for Martin and nodded for the women to let him down to the ground.

  “Is he…?” Ursula started to say.

  Purvis shook his head. He looked at his niece. Lorene’s face was covered with black soot. Ursula looked like some beggarwoman from the pages of Charles Dickens, her dress torn and black with smoke and soot, her face smudged with charcoal.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know if he’s dead or alive.”

  Purvis sat down next to Martin’s body and opened his bag. Ursula and Lorene looked down at both of them as rifle reports sounded from every quarter.

  And they knew that the battle was not over and that the killing had not stopped.

  “I can’t imagine something like this happening,” Lorene said, shaking her head as if in a daze.

  “Neither can I,” Ursula said. “I never thought I’d see the day when neighbor fought neighbor with such meanness. Look at that beautiful house. It’s ruined.”

  And then Ursula began to cry as the enormity of all that had happened swept through her senses like a harsh prairie wind laden with heat from the sun rising over them at that moment and peering down at them like some angry and merciless god.

  46

  MATTEO RODE BEHIND the adobe huts, well away from them so there was little chance of anyone hearing him pass by in the darkness just before dawn. His senses quickened as he rode past one and heard a baby crying inside. He stopped his horse and waited. He heard a soft crooning voice speaking to the child in Spanish and then the baby was quiet and Matteo rode on, halting his horse every few minutes to listen. A dog barked at him, then slunk away when he waved his rifle at it. No one came outside to see why the dog had barked. He did not see the curtains move slightly as he passed, nor the eyes watching him through the cracks in those curtains.

  Fog arose from the creek and the fields and he knew the sun was coming up, although he couldn’t see it. His timing was perfect, he thought. His men would start their attack on the Box B when conditions were just right.

  He heard shots from the direction of the road, and then the rumble of hoofbeats. He passed the last adobe and started angling toward the Box B headquarters, in no hurry. He just wanted to find a good place where he could watch the battle undetected. He came t
o the creek which was masked by rising mist and fog, and crossed it; on the other side, a line of trees marked its route, and from within the treeline he could see the dim outlines of the barn and the house beyond.

  He found a place where he could sit his horse and watch the house and yard. He had a fair view of the garden and a boxed wagon in back of the house, just barely visible. Or perhaps it was not a wagon, he thought. It could have been an outbuilding. There were trees around it, but he didn’t remember ever seeing a structure in that place.

  Back among the adobes, several women spoke quietly about the man that had ridden through, and two of those women knew that they had seen Matteo Aguilar. They knew he did not belong there but they were afraid, until one woman, Carmen Sifuentes, the wife of Julio, told them she would make her way to the house where her husband was and tell him what they had all seen. The other women said she was crazy and went back to their adobes and barred their doors.

  From his position, Matteo could hear the rumble of many horses as they galloped up the road toward the house. As the fog thickened and rose, he saw a puff of smoke from one of the upstairs windows and a second later he heard the report. Then he heard more rifle shots and saw the white smoke burst into the fog, then mingle with it and stay close to the ground.

  Matteo drew in a deep breath to quell the excitement that made his blood tingle and his heart beat faster. He could see his men riding as they had been trained to ride, encircling the house and grounds, reining their horses every few yards so that they zigzagged and presented difficult targets. There was a lot of shooting, but he did not hear the roar of Martin’s cannon and he smiled, wondering if his men had knocked it out on the first charge.

  He kept looking at the house, wondering when his men would do what he had asked them to—set it ablaze. He did not have too long to wait, although it seemed like much time had gone by. When he saw the first column of smoke rising to the sky, he knew his men had done their job, and after a few moments he saw the flames themselves, shooting from the front of the house.