The Baron Brand Read online

  “He does not look at me that way.”

  “You are a child with no breasts, Conchita. He does not want a flat-chested girl.”

  Conchita flushed with embarrassment. She had only little more than a dozen years, but already she was growing pips on her chest and she was self-conscious about them. “I did not mean to compare myself with you, señora. I just meant that he probably means no harm.”

  Luz squeezed the dough between her fingers until it oozed like flesh from between them. Her dark eyes blazed with a liquid fire that Conchita could almost feel. She sat a little lower on the stool so that the man could not see her even if he came close.

  “Luz,” Reynaud said, “are you whispering about me?”

  Luz did not turn around.

  “What do you want?” Luz asked, a pleasantness in her voice that was forced.

  “I wanted to talk to Matteo,” he said, and both women could hear his footfalls on the board flooring, the tap of his high polished heels on the rubbed wood like little mallets.

  “He is not here,” she said. “He left before you awoke. He is working. If you look out the back window, you will see him and Mickey Bone with the horses.”

  Reynaud came close, peered over Luz’s shoulder. Conchita scrunched down, but she knew he had seen her. “Umm, smells good in here,” he said. “What are you making?”

  He was so close behind her, Luz could almost feel the heat of his body and she imagined that he was aroused and might rub against her with his manhood so that she would take notice of him. She turned as if to ward him off, as if to warn him with her look that he was to come no closer.

  “We make the flour for the tortillas,” Luz said, and there was no welcome or kindness in her voice.

  “My mouth waters at the thought of eating your tortillas,” he said.

  Conchita suppressed a giggle.

  Reynaud moved away, walked to the side of the large table so that he could see both women. He looked at Conchita. She lowered her head and cowled her eyes against the shame she might feel. Luz attacked Reynaud with her stare, her gaze boring into his eyes as if they were the loaded barrels of guns.

  He smiled at Luz, a disarming smile meant to melt her heart. But, she did not smile in return. Her fingers contracted once again, delving into the lump of ochre dough and she lifted the brain-sized chunk from the bowl. Tendons rippled in her arms as she applied pressure and then she dropped the dough back into the bowl. It landed with a plopping sound.

  “Hard work,” he said.

  “And you are keeping us from it,” Luz said. “A man should not be in the kitchen. You should be out working with Matteo.”

  “I am a guest,” Reynaud said.

  “Only when my husband is here,” she said.

  “Oh? I thought his hospitality extended to me no matter where he was.”

  “You are wrong, señor. You are Matteo’s guest, not mine.”

  Reynaud strode to the window over the counter and looked outside. “I do not think that Bone likes me,” he said.

  “No, he does not,” Luz said, more quickly than she would have liked.

  “He likes Martin Baron, I think.”

  “It is not Martin that is the friend of Bone, but his son, Anson.”

  “I do not know this Anson. A boy, you say?”

  “He is a man. You asked Bone to help you kill Martin Baron. He would not do that, even for Matteo. Matteo respects such loyalty.”

  “Loyalty,” Reynaud spat. “To a coward, a dog like Martin Baron? That is ridiculous.”

  Reynaud turned from the window, looked at Luz. Conchita hunched over the table, kneading the corn flour in the bowl.

  “I have heard what you told my husband about Martin Baron,” Luz said, glaring at Reynaud. “He did not molest your sister. He is not that kind.”

  “So, you like the Barons yourself, eh? That is quite amusing, considering that Matteo hates them all with a passion.”

  Luz pushed the ball of dough down into the bowl and stood up. She shoved the bowl away, toward Conchita. “Matteo does not hate the Barons,” she said. “He is angry that they have so much land that once belonged to the Aguilar family. He wants the land back.”

  “But, he would kill for the land,” Reynaud said.

  “Not if he has someone do it for him,” Luz said, an accusing tone in her voice.

  “Matteo is a smart man. I think he would kill Martin Baron himself if I did not do it.”

  Luz tossed her head. Her black mane of hair swirled in the air, settled on her shoulders and back. “He is not afraid of the Barons,” she said. “He prefers to drive them off the land. There has already been too much blood spilled.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That is none of your business, señor. Now I think you had better go and see Matteo. But I will warn you that Mickey Bone is as loyal to my husband as he is to Anson Baron. If you harm any of the Baron family, I think he would kill you.”

  “And Matteo would not mind?”

  “Matteo would not care,” Luz said, and she sat back down at the table, dismissing Reynaud as if he were one of the Rocking A field hands.

  Reynaud snorted and stalked to the back door. Luz heard it slam behind him. She looked up at Conchita and smiled. “I would not think anything of killing that Frenchman myself,” she said.

  “Why do you hate him so?” Conchita asked.

  “He will cause my husband much trouble if he tries to kill Martin Baron. There has been enough killing. There is blood on this house.”

  Conchita winced. “But your husband wants the Frenchman to kill Martin Baron, does he not?”

  “I do not know. Sometimes, I think my husband wants to kill everyone. He has the anger inside him. I think if Reynaud does not kill Martin that Matteo will take his men and kill all of the Barons.”

  “But you told Reynaud—”

  “I know, I lied. I do not like Reynaud. I hope Martin kills him.”

  “But then your husband might fight Martin Baron and—”

  “And Matteo might be killed?”

  “Yes, pardon, he might be killed.”

  Luz smiled the smile of someone with a dark secret.

  “Yes, that might happen,” Luz said softly. “And then there might be peace here in the valley.”

  “But you do not want Matteo to be killed,” Conchita said, her voice rising in pitch.

  Luz picked up the wad of dough and scrunched it in her hands as if she meant to tear it apart. She sighed and looked beyond Conchita into empty space.

  “No,” Luz breathed. “I want my child to have a father. But Matteo was born under an unlucky star. He was born to be killed.”

  Conchita shivered at the thought. She looked at Luz with eyes full of puzzlement.

  “And Bone is the same way. They both are men of destiny. But it is a bad destiny. I think maybe that Reynaud might be the man sent to see that both my husband and Bone are finally killed.”

  “Do not say such things, my mistress,” Conchita said. “It makes me afraid.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. I, too, am afraid. I have the fear in my heart and it hurts so much I want to scream.”

  Conchita fell silent. She averted her gaze from Luz because there was a look on her face that she did not understand.

  Luz felt the darkness inside her blossom and grow into a cloud like the black thunderhead preceding a storm. Her fingers began to slowly work through the dough and a tear spilled from one eye and trickled down her cheek. She touched her slightly bulging stomach and patted the child inside.

  Then, to herself, she began to pray silently to God.

  15

  MATTEO AGUILAR SWORE softly as the rope burned his fingers, peeled the brown skin back until the rosy flesh was exposed. Blood seeped from the raw wound and the hemp fibers stung like salt as they stuck to the gooey mass. Matteo shifted his hand and dug his boot heels into the ground as the rope tautened once again.

  The horse at the other end of the rope kept backing up, its eyes f
laring wildly in their sockets, its ears flattened like a cur’s, its rubbery nostrils twitching in anger.

  “Pendejo,” Matteo swore again. “Whoa up, you bastard.” The last phrase uttered in English.

  Mickey Bone pulled on the other rope, making it tight, jerking the horse in the opposite direction. “You get burned?” he asked.

  “That son of a whore,” Matteo said.

  Bone laughed.

  “It is not funny,” Aguilar said.

  “It is funny if the horse can understand you.”

  “He understands me. I am going to kill him.”

  “That is what is wrong with you, Matteo. You want to kill everything. What is it that burns inside you? You have a ranch, a nice wife who is with child. You have good horses and cattle and plenty to eat.”

  “That is none of your business, Mickey,” Aguilar snapped.

  “I am just curious, my friend.”

  The horse stood its ground, not moving, caught between two tight ropes. But, from the look in its eyes, it was ready to bolt if either man allowed any slack.

  “That is true,” Bone said. “I will keep my distance.”

  “I did not mean that, my friend.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I do not know what to think of you, Mickey. You seem loyal to me, yet you will not help Reynaud.”

  “I do not like Reynaud.”

  “Why not?”

  “He is a coward.”

  Aguilar bent the rope around his waist as the horse tried to step away. He dug his heels in harder, leaned backwards to keep the tension on the rope.

  “Why do you say this?” Aguilar asked. “You do not know the man.”

  “He says he comes to kill Martin Baron, but he asks for your help. I think he is afraid of Martin.”

  “Are you afraid of Baron?”

  “I am not afraid of him,” Bone said. “I just do not want to kill him.”

  “Reynaud would kill him.”

  “I would not help Reynaud to kill a rat or a snake.”

  Matteo laughed harshly, swallowing in a dry mouth. “You have said you would help me in a fight with Martin Baron.”

  “If it came to that, I would fight at your side, Matteo.”

  “If you help Reynaud, we will not have to fight Baron.”

  “We would have to fight Anson.”

  “And you would not fight the son?”

  “I would have to think a long time about doing that.”

  Matteo savagely released his grip on the rope and the line went slack. He began to whip the loose end as he charged toward the startled horse, driving it in Bone’s direction. Bone pulled on the rope instinctively and fell backwards as the slack went out of it. He lay on the ground as the wild horse bolted toward him.

  Bone rolled out of the way, but the horse reared up and flailed its forelegs in the air as if boxing, its eyes flared wide, its ears laid back flat against its head. Bone drew his pistol, cocked it as it cleared the holster and fired it at the horse. The lead ball whistled past the horse’s ear and the stubborn animal came down on its forelegs with a jolt, then turned away and began to gallop toward the open field, the ropes trailing in the dirt, snapping and undulating like angry serpents.

  “Are you trying to kill my horse?” Aguilar snapped.

  “If I had wanted to kill it, I would have shot its eye out.”

  “Now, we have to catch it and start all over,” Aguilar said, as if musing to himself.

  “You show anger to the horse, Matteo, but the anger is for me,” Bone said.

  Aguilar walked over as Bone stood up. He glared at Bone in a silent rage. Bone thumbed the broken percussion cap off the nipple of his cap and ball Colt and spun the cylinder until the hammer rested on a loaded chamber.

  “I do not understand what it is between you and Anson Baron, that is all,” Aguilar said.

  “There is nothing between me and him.”

  “There is something,” Aguilar insisted.

  “I was once his friend.”

  “But you are no longer?”

  “No, I am no longer Anson’s friend.”

  “But you do not treat him as my enemy.”

  “He is your enemy, Matteo, not mine.”

  “If a man is loyal, his enemies are his friend’s enemies.”

  “Anson has never done anything to me. He has never done anything to you.”

  Aguilar stomped the heel of his boot hard against the ground as Bone holstered his pistol after checking the unfired caps. Matteo ground his heel into the dirt as if crushing an insect and his face clouded up with anger.

  Bone said nothing. His black eyes held Aguilar’s gaze as if they were granite, empty of feeling, impervious to any assault of wind or rain or sun.

  “His family has stolen some of my land,” Aguilar said, his words measured and venomous.

  “Martin paid your family for every hectare he owns.”

  “Damn you, Mickey, do not argue with me.”

  “I do not argue with you, Matteo. But I was there. Martin bought the land. You do not need it. You cannot work the land you have.”

  “What do you know about owning land? You have no land. You will never have any land.”

  Bone did not move; his gaze did not waver. “That is true, Matteo. My people do not believe in owning land. They say the land and everything on it belongs to the Great Father in the sky.”

  “That is a heathen belief.”

  “It is my belief.”

  Aguilar opened his mouth as if to say something else, but just then they both heard the back door of the house slam shut. Matteo turned and saw Reynaud coming down the steps of the porch, heading toward them as if he were out for a Sunday stroll.

  “We will speak of this later, Mickey,” Aguilar said.

  “If that is what you want to do, Matteo. I am already tired of speaking this way.”

  “What way?”

  “About things we cannot change, about land that my people once rode upon and left their blood on and now your people have left their blood here and when we are gone someone else will claim it and our blood will be on it.”

  “Shut your mouth, Mickey.”

  “I will catch the horse while you talk with the Frenchman,” Bone said. “Tomorrow I will go to Mexico and bring my woman back to this ranch.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Matteo. I have been too long without my woman. This makes my temper grow short.”

  Bone walked away and Aguilar cursed under his breath in two languages. He kicked the ground again and the veins in his neck stood out like purple cords. He turned away and watched Reynaud as he came closer, a smile on his face.

  He did not want to admit it to himself, but he was beginning to dislike Reynaud himself. The man had been there for two days and had made no move to go after Martin Baron. And, his appetite for food could break a man.

  And, another thing, Aguilar thought, if Bone were right and Reynaud was a coward, then he had no use for such a man. For all his faults, Bone was not a coward.

  And, neither was Martin Baron.

  16

  THE TREBLE KEYS of the piano rippled with tinkling arpeggios while the bass keys clunked in a driving rhythm that nearly drowned out the clank of glasses and the drone of conversation at the bar and tables set for dining. The player, a rotund man whose bottom lapped over the rounded edge of the stool, tapped his feet in rhythm with his flying fingers, one foot stepping on the damper pedals, the other rapping leather on the hardwood floor. A sodden cigarette dangled from his corpulent lips, a tendril of bluish smoke snaking into a thin cloud above his balding, sweat-glistened head. A drink jiggled on a wooden ledge at one side of the keyboard, the amber liquid electrified into a miniature sea by the percussive shaking of the entire piano.

  Men stood at the long bar, or sat on tall stools, drinking and smoking, talking loud enough for their voices to be heard above the sound of the rollicking music. A lone bartender, sleeves bound by royal purple garters just above t
he elbows, poured whiskey into tumblers and slid them on the polished bar top toward those who had ordered them.

  Two or three tables were already occupied with diners, as new arrivals streamed through the batwing doors of the Longhorn Saloon, wearing clothes freshly laundered and pressed for evening. A waiter emerged from the kitchen, bearing a large tray heaped with plates of steaming beef, potatoes, biscuits, turnips and beans.

  Ken Richman and Ed Wales sat at a far table, engrossed in conversation, drinking whiskeys and flicking ashes from their cigarettes onto the floor instead of in the ashtray. They both looked toward the doors as David Wilhoit and Ursula Killian entered, looking like bewildered children. At the bar, Roy Killian turned around to stare at his mother who was blinking her eyes to accustom them to the light in the saloon.

  Roy frowned and the man sitting next to him punched him in the ribs. Roy turned to him and, a look of anger flooding his face, jabbed out his cigarette in a cenicero made of clay that sat atop the bar.

  “Hey,” said the man next to Roy, “ain’t that your ma?”

  “So what?” Roy said, his eyes ablaze with a lambent light.

  “Aw, nothin’, it’s just I ain’t never seen her out at night before.”

  “Well, you ain’t seen a whole hell of a lot,” Roy said, turning his back to his mother and Wilhoit.

  “Christ, Roy, what you so hot about? I was just sayin’—”

  “I ain’t hot about nothin’, Will. Just shut your damned trap.”

  Will Harrison grabbed his drink, downed it as if to still his already thickened tongue. Roy sat there, fuming, and began to roll another cigarette.

  “There’s a fine-looking woman,” Ed Wales said, nodding in Ursula’s direction.

  Ken nodded. “Widow woman. Seems like she’s got herself a beau already.”

  “That man? He doesn’t look as if he could hold a candle to her spark.”

  “Maybe not,” Ken said, a musing tone to his voice.

  “Who is he?”

  “Surveyor. Works for Aguilar.”

  “Oh yeah.” All day long Ken had filled Ed Wales in on the inhabitants of the vast Rio Grande Valley, and the name Aguilar had come up.

  “What’s he surveying?” Ed asked.

  “Land that’s not any of his damned business.”