The Baron Brand Read online

  She and Jack had gone back to Nebraska to see her mother, Ingrid Grunig, but she had already withered to a skeleton and her brain had become addled from aging. They had wanted to take her back to Texas to live out her years, but that was not to be. Her mother died before the week was out and Ursula and Jack buried her in Omaha, sold her house and land for pennies on the dollar.

  Ursula touched a finger to her right cheekbone, traced the outlines of the extrusion. She had lost weight since Jack had died and it showed in her face, as it had in her mother’s. Her fingertip lingered on the oval swell of flesh as if that were the place where death first touched, as if to remind herself that she, too, would grow old and die someday.

  “Ma, what’s the matter? Don’t you like your new home?” Roy peered at his mother, trying to see her face under the bonnet she wore. All he could see was her slight frown and a set jaw.

  “Why, sure, Roy, it’s mighty fine,” Ursula drawled. “It’s just that it’s so bare here. No flowers, no trees.”

  Relieved, Roy let out a soft sigh. “Why, I aim to plant you some trees and we’ll get flowers and everything. I already talked to Ken Richman. He’s over to Baronsville, and he said he thought he could get me some box elders and some rosebushes, and pecan trees and figs and persimmons.”

  “We didn’t see any town,” his mother said, looking at her son’s face just so she would not have to look at the small shack that was to be her new home.

  “Well, it wasn’t on our way,” he said lamely. But his mother knew better. Roy had talked to her long into the nights to convince her to leave Fort Worth and the soldiers she washed and ironed for and sometimes took to her bed. She knew he was jealous of her lovers and resented the attention she gave to men she liked.

  “Well, is Baronsville far?” she asked. “I’d like to see it, maybe buy some things for the … the house.”

  “Oh, it ain’t far, Ma. It’s over yonder some.” Roy pointed to land that stretched to the horizon, grassy, rolling land that had few distinguishing features beyond clumps of mesquite and grass peppering the soil that was not yet high enough to measure.

  “Why it’s back the way we came out,” she said.

  “Yeah, I reckon.”

  Ursula sighed deeply. “Well, let’s take a look inside,” she said. “You built this all by yourself?”

  “No’m, I had help. Horky, he’s a Mexican, he helped me and some others. Martin Baron give me this land and said I could buy more when I got some money.”

  Ursula stepped down from the buckboard as Roy dismounted. “I got to put up a hitchrail,” he said sheepishly as he tied his reins to the wagon.

  “Seems like you’ve got a lot of work to do, Roy,” his mother said, as she dusted off her frock. Gingerly, she walked toward the house, avoiding the cow pies and tumbleweeds that lay in her path. The house smelled of new wood shavings, but the whipsawed boards appeared to be dry, not green. She noticed such things with a critical eye as her mother had before her. Together they had chinked the Nebraska cabin before the snow blew that first winter and they used straw and cloth to insulate the inside walls, pasting them on with glue made from boiled horses’ hooves.

  Ursula lifted the latchkey and the door, on leather hinges, swung open without squeaking. “Mmm,” she said, in approval.

  Roy followed her eagerly as she stepped inside the small, two-room dwelling. His mother could almost hear his heart pounding in his chest.

  “What do you think, Ma?” he asked.

  “Well, it might do,” she said. “We’ll see when the furniture arrives. When did you say it would be here?”

  “Oh, tomorrow at the latest. Them boys I got to haul it are real fast.”

  “Umm, well, we’ll see,” she said. There was a bed built into one corner. It was made up, if not fancy, then comfortable enough, with a spread and blanket, sheets, and a single pillow, which was covered fancy in pink satin. Ursula walked to the bed and tested it with a light punch of her fist. She pressed a hand on the pillow, felt its give. Then, she walked around, went in the other room, which was a kitchen with a small woodstove, plenty of kindling and wood, some few utensils on the top shelf and pots and pans, ladles and spoons hanging on wooden dowels nailed into the wall. There was a small homely bunk, with a pair of blankets and a feather ticking pillow in one corner.

  “That where you sleep?”

  “Yes’ m,” Roy said.

  “It’s somewhat Spartan.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Well, I suppose we can make do until my things get here,” she said, opening a crude cupboard to see boxes of staples.

  “There’s a springhouse I dug out back,” Roy said, “and I got meat hanging in it. Prime young beef.”

  “Longhorn, no doubt.”

  “Well, yes’m, I reckon.”

  Ursula smiled at Roy. “You’re a good son.”

  “Thank you, Ma.”

  “You remind me of your father. He was always a comfort when he was home. Thoughtful.”

  Roy didn’t say anything, but his face was beaming with pride. It had been hard for him to tell his mother about his father’s death. She had taken it hard, sobbing for days, crying all night when she thought he was asleep.

  Ursula removed her bonnet and tossed it on the bed. She walked to a nearby window and pulled back the burlap sack that covered it. A small cloud of flies that had clung to the outer surface of the drape took flight, their green-blue bodies iridescent in the sun.

  “I see you have a well out back,” she said, “and a corral. Do you have cattle?”

  “A few. Martin gave me three leagues of land to get started and me and Horky are buildin’ fence. Next year I’ll plant new grass on one section.”

  “Who are those men out there walking around?” she asked.

  “Men?”

  “They have horses, but they’re carrying sticks and some kind of looking glass.”

  Roy strode to the window and looked out. In the distance he saw four men, four horses. One man was waving to another who was walking backwards carrying a pole. Another was kneeling down, digging a hand into the earth, while another stood nearby, a rifle cradled in his arms.

  “Well, do you know them?” Roy’s mother asked.

  “No’m, but I’m sure as hell going to find out. You wait here.”

  “Nonsense,” she said, “I’ll go with you.”

  “There might be trouble,” he said.

  “Trouble?” Ursula’s eyebrows rose to twin arches.

  “Those are Mexicans out there and I don’t recognize nary a one of ’em.”

  “That one man doesn’t look like a Mexican,” she said.

  “Which one?”

  “The one with the telescope. You know what they’re doing, don’t you?”

  “No’m, I don’t.”

  “They’re surveyors.”

  “Surveyors?”

  “They’re measuring your land. If that’s your land out there.”

  “It sure is.” Roy tipped his hat back from his forehead and rubbed his scalp with his fingers just past the hairline. “I wonder if Martin sent them out.”

  “Let’s go ask,” Ursula said.

  When they reached the door, Roy stopped. “Do you want to get your bonnet, Ma?”

  “No, I need some sun,” she said, casting a sidelong glance at the cramped room once again. “Until I get a hoe in my hands, it looks as if I’ll be a shut-in.”

  “Ma, please,” Roy said, and ushered his mother out the door. Outside, they circled the house and started walking toward the team of surveyors.

  “Oh, you have a creek,” Ursula exclaimed when she glanced to her left.

  “Bandera Creek,” Roy said. “That’s why I picked this spot for the house.”

  “And an outhouse,” she said. “I hadn’t noticed.” Off to the right, out of view of the back windows of the house, a small board building stood in a copse of mesquite trees. “It’s big, isn’t it?”

  “I keep my tack in there,” Roy sai
d. “There’s a wall inside to separate the two cubicles.”

  “How clever,” Ursula said, not without pride.

  “I’ll build a barn, Ma, and move the tack, giving us a little storeroom.”

  “There’s no end to it,” she said. “The building, I mean. You’ve gotten a good start.”

  “Thanks, Ma.”

  As mother and son approached the surveyors, the man at the tripod holding the theodolite stepped away, shaded his eyes as he peered at them. The Mexicans all straightened up and stared, too. All of the men wore holsters and pistols. The man with the rifle did not shift the weapon, but stood motionless.

  “What are you boys doing?” Roy asked as he and his mother drew near.

  “Working,” said the man standing by the theodolite. “I’m Dave Wilhoit.”

  “I’m Roy Killian and this is my land.”

  “Yes sir,” said Wilhoit.

  “You’re a surveyor, aren’t you?” Ursula asked.

  “Yes’m”

  “So, do you work for Martin Baron?” Roy asked.

  “No sir, we don’t.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No sir.”

  “Then how come you’re out here measurin’ my land?”

  Wilhoit removed his hat, looked directly into Ursula’s eyes. Her face flushed slightly and she brushed away a vagrant curl that grazed her cheek.

  “Ma’am,” Wilhoit said. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

  “Ursula Killian. I’m Roy’s mother.”

  “Why you look more like his sister, ma’am.”

  Roy swallowed saliva, blinked. He did not look at his mother.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Wilhoit. I’m flattered.”

  “You didn’t answer my question, sir,” Roy said.

  “We work for Mr. Aguilar.”

  “Aguilar?”

  “Matteo Miguelito Aguilar. He owns the Rocking A Ranch over yonder.”

  “I know who he is,” Roy said. “And he ain’t got no business sendin’ you boys on out here.”

  “We have permission,” Wilhoit said.

  “Permission?”

  “Yes sir. Mr. Baron, he told us we could survey.”

  “Martin Baron?” Roy asked.

  “No, it was the younger Baron. Anson.”

  “Anson? What the hell … ?”

  Ursula looked closely at Wilhoit. He was nobody’s fool, she decided. He was a stocky, handsome man, not very tall, about. five foot eight or nine, perhaps, with light hair the color of dusky wheat, and light brown eyes, clean shaven, muscular. He appeared to be in his mid or late twenties, but he seemed sure of himself. There was an air of confidence in him that she liked.

  “My,” she said to the surveyor, “you must be hot out here in the sun and all. Perhaps you’d like to come over to the house and I could fix you some tea. Roy, we do have tea, don’t we?”

  “No’m,” Roy said, “we ain’t got none.”

  “Coffee, then. We have that, don’t we?”

  “Yes’m, we got coffee. But not very much.”

  “That’s all right, ma’am,” Dave said. “We got to keep working. I want to finish this section before the sun sets.”

  “What do you expect to find?” Ursula asked. “That my son and I are trespassers?” There was a challenge in her voice now that her offer of hospitality had been rebuffed.

  “Why, I don’t rightly know, Mrs. Killian,” Dave said. “I’m just hired as a surveyor. Mr. Aguilar didn’t tell me why he wanted this section surveyed.”

  “Well, he ought to have,” Roy said. “I got papers on this land. Signed by Mr. Martin Baron himself.”

  “I’m sure you do, Mr. Killian,” Dave said, a tone of forced respect in his voice. “I’m sure my surveys will bear that out.”

  “I could have told you that,” Roy said. “No need for you to look through that glass there and measure my land.”

  “There’s an old saying,” Dave said, “good fences build good neighbors. I think Mr. Aguilar just wants to know where your land ends and his begins.”

  “Mighty dumb of him, you ask me,” Roy said. “Man don’t know where his own land is.”

  “Roy, that’s enough,” Ursula said. “Mr. Wilhoit, David, if I may, we’re sure you’re doing what you were hired to do. If you get through work early or need to ask any questions, just stop by the house yonder, will you?” Her voice was laden with sugar and Roy grimaced slightly.

  “Why, I’d like that, Mrs. Killian,” Dave said. “We shouldn’t be more’n another day or so. We’re camped beyond Bandera Creek. If you’ve got a chair to sit on, it would be mighty welcome.”

  “You drop on by,” Ursula said, holding up her arm for her son to take it. Roy stared at her a moment before he realized she wanted to go back. He took his mother’s arm and started to turn to walk back to the new house.

  “You get your business done quick, Wilhoit,” Roy said sharply.

  “I’ll do my best,” Dave said, with an engaging lopsided grin. Then, as if to irritate Roy, he spoke directly to Ursula. “Ma’am, I’ll surely stop by if I have time,” he said.

  Ursula waved and smiled at Wilhoit.

  She could sense her son’s irritation as he began to match her stride.

  “How come you’re butterin’ up that man, Ma?” he said when they were out of earshot of the survey team.

  “I wasn’t buttering him up,” she said. “I was just being polite.”

  Roy snorted. He looked back once before he and his mother reached the house, but Dave Wilhoit was looking through the theodolite and motioning for one of the Mexicans to move back with the measuring stick.

  That sonofabitch better not be looking at my mother, Roy thought. I’ll survey his puny ass.

  3

  THE HORSE GALLOPED past Peebo and Anson, reins dragging, stirrups swaying and flapping like bell clappers. Its ears were laid back and its eyes wide as saucers as it shied away from the two riders and sped off, riderless, back toward the line shack.

  “That was Jorge’s horse,” Anson said as he reined to a halt.

  “Like somethin’ was sure as hell chasin’ it,” Peebo said, “or it got spooked somethin’ fearful.”

  “I’ll say. Come on.”

  Anson followed the horse’s tracks which led into the brush and then out again. Beyond, they saw movement and both men drew their cap and ball pistols. A man’s arms stuck out of a thicket of prickly pear and brambles. Streaks of blood streamed down both arms.

  “Jorge?” Anson asked as he rode up.

  He heard a stream of Spanish curses coming from the man lying in a clump of cactus.

  “That must be Jorge,” Peebo said.

  “Jorge, what in hell are you doing?” Anson asked.

  “Me muero de dolor,” Jorge whined.

  “Get your ass out of there.”

  “Ayudame.”

  Anson started to dismount when Peebo stuck out an arm and blocked him.

  “What?” Anson asked.

  “Listen,” Peebo said.

  Anson listened. “I don’t hear anything.”

  Jorge was silent. He lay there, unmoving, on a bed of prickly cactus. Anson looked at him for a long moment. “Horse throw you, Jorge?”

  “No,” Jorge replied. “Apache.”

  “Looky there,” Peebo said, pointing to the ground beyond the cactus patch. “This here Jorge was dragged to that clump of prickly pear.”

  “Dragged?” A sinking feeling stirred in Anson’s stomach. He saw the drag marks and then he saw the rope lumped up behind Jorge’s head. He rode closer and looked down. A loop of rope was around Jorge’s neck.

  Anson swore.

  “We ain’t alone,” Peebo said softly.

  Anson looked up.

  “Apache,” Jorge said. “Culebra.”

  “Snake?” Peebo asked.

  Anson’s stomach seemed to sink deeper and swirl with winged insects. He looked around, his eyes following the contours of the land. There was a low ri
dge just beyond where they stood and he could not see any farther than that. A quail piped in the distance.

  “What do you mean ‘we ain’t alone’?” Anson asked, a quaver in his voice.

  “It sure as hell warn’t no snake,” Peebo said.

  “Jorge wasn’t talking about a snake.”

  “Sounded like he was.”

  Anson’s stomach turned into a pit of fear. “That’s the name of an Apache, son of Cuchillo, one that my pa and I killed.”

  “Uh-oh,” Peebo said, reaching for the rifle in his boot, a .40 caliber flintlock, converted to percussion, with a cherrywood stock, made by a German in Tennessee, the thirty-two-inch barrel made from rolled Damascus steel, tempered on a blacksmith’s forge. The rifle slipped easily from its sheath.

  Anson drew his pistol, the one his father had bought him, a cap and ball Navy, .44 caliber. “Jorge, can you get out of there?” he whispered.

  “Much pain,” Jorge said. “Rope caught.”

  Anson swore again. He looked at the loop around Jorge’s neck. It was tight against his throat. Below, a section was coiled around three or four paddles of cactus. If Jorge tried to get up, he would strangle.

  “Where did Culebra go, Jorge?” Anson asked.

  “I do not know.” Jorge gagged and seemed to be choking.

  “You get him loose, Anson,” Peebo said. “I’ll cover you.”

  Anson stepped out of the saddle, holding his pistol out of the way. He tiptoed to where Jorge lay and knelt down.

  “Ten cuidado,” Jorge said. “Be careful.”

  Anson reached down with his left hand and grasped the rope. Slowly, he began to unwind it from the roots of the prickly pear. He winced, but did not cry out when a slender sharp spine pricked the back of his hand. It was then that he noticed his hand was shaking.

  The rope was further pinned by a forked mesquite branch driven into the earth. Anson felt the wooden shaft with his hand. When he pulled on it, the shaft broke off. He saw that it had been cut after it had been pounded into the ground, deliberately cut so that it would break when someone tried to pull the forked section loose.