The Baron Brand Read online

  “You will not shoot the bull, Pedro,” Martin said. “That is a good bull. He has the balls, he has the heart. He will make a fine sire.”

  “Who will brand this big bull?” Pedro asked, as Tito shuffled off to see after his son.

  “I will give you the honor,” Martin said. “You caught him”.

  “I think you should do the honor, patrón. You tied him so that he could not cause damage.”

  “No, you will put the Box B brand on this bull. And, you will take me to that village where the good vaqueros live. I will hire them all to work on this ranch.”

  “Yes, I will do that,” Pedro said, his voice trembling. He looked up. “Here is Julio already.”

  Martin turned to see the boy ride up.

  “Julio?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said in Spanish.

  “Why do you ride to Golondrina?”

  “I have a message from my mother.”

  “What passes? Is my wife sick? Is your mother sick?”

  “My mother says to tell you to come back to La Loma de Sombra quick and take the cannon away.”

  “What?”

  Julio repeated the message he had been given to deliver.

  Martin quelled his rage, smiled at the boy.

  “You ride on back, Julio, and tell your mother that you gave me the message. Tell her I will be back soon and remove the cannon.”

  The boy nodded, smiling. Then, he turned and started the long journey back to the main house where the Baron family lived.

  “Pedro,” Martin said, “what do you suppose Lucinda meant by that message?”

  Pedro, who was still on his horse, shook his head. “I do not know, but if Lucinda told you to take the cannon away, then your wife told her to do it.”

  “That’s what I think,” Martin said. “Either Caroline has gone crazy or Lucinda has been drinking too much aguardiente.”

  Pedro did not say anything. He had heard that there was trouble in the Baron house. Everyone had heard that. And, some said that it was true, the wife of Martin Baron was loca, crazy. But, he, like his boss, was puzzled by the message. The cannon was in the barn, covered up with a canvas. It was not in the way of anything. Why would Lucinda send her son on such a long ride to tell Martin to take the cannon away? It did not make sense to Pedro.

  “Pedro,” Martin said, abruptly shattering the vaquero’s thoughts. “Get Tito and Chamaco. We’ve got to round up every head that you let get loose. Before dark.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’d better hope that this bull here doesn’t have a big brother.”

  Pedro did not laugh.

  10

  MICKEY BONE CARRIED things in his heart that he wished would go away. Feelings he no longer had any use for, affections he could no longer afford. Riding back to the Aguilar rancho, he fought with those feelings, tried to bury them in that same place in his heart where he carried hatred, but their tendrils kept writhing and breaking back out like the tentacles of a strong vine, whipping and lashing at his senses like demonic arms.

  While he had no affection for Martin Baron, he did not like doing what he was doing with Anson, Martin’s son. He bore no malice toward Anson. But this had been Matteo Aguilar’s wish, to send Culebra after Anson, to steal from him, to kill him, if the Apache had the chance.

  He had watched as Culebra and his braves had stolen the horses, marveling at the cunning of the Apaches, almost wishing he were one of them, instead of being an outcast, forced to drift like a tumbleweed between two worlds, perhaps three, if he included Aguilar and the mexicanos. He was part Lipan Apache, but he had lived in the white man’s world and now was working for Matteo Miguelito Aguilar, not as an equal, but as a hired man.

  The hard angles of the Aguilar rancho house loomed on the horizon, just beyond the shimmers of heat waves that arose from small dancing lakes of silver, mirages that vanished like ghost smoke into thin air as he neared them.

  Bone had stayed behind long enough to know that the Apaches had gotten away with the horses. They would drive them down into Mexico, sell them, and nobody would know that Culebra had any connection to Matteo Aguilar. Or to Bone, for that matter.

  What bothered Bone now was that Anson and that other gringo, he did not know his name, were following Culebra on foot. It might be that Anson would catch up to Culebra and his braves. It might be that Anson and his friend would be killed, their scalps taken to hang from an Apache lance. But, Anson would not be easy to kill. That one had uncommon courage and stamina. Bone knew. Once they had been friends and he often wondered how it would have turned out if he had let Anson go with him when he left the Box B. Perhaps he and Anson would be riding together now, not here, not in Texas, but south of the Río Bravo, in the mountains of Mexico. Perhaps they would be with the Lipan Apache, fathering children, hunting, fishing, living as his people had lived for centuries.

  Bone shook all those thoughts from his head. He would not think of Anson Baron again. Not so long as he worked for Matteo. Not so long as he carried the hate in his heart for Martin Baron.

  Matteo Aguilar was waiting for Bone. The rancher stood in the shade at the side of the house, hatless, a pipe in his mouth. He beckoned to Bone to follow him as he turned and walked behind the house toward the stables. Bone saw no sign of Luz, Aguilar’s wife.

  Bone could almost smell the blood on the house where Matteo lived. The Mexican had taken the house and all the land in blood and the reek was still there, although all traces had long since been washed away. He could still see the bodies of Matteo’s family, could almost hear the crack of gunfire, smell the acrid aroma of burnt black powder.

  “You come back so soon,” Aguilar said. “What do you know, my friend?”

  Bone saw the strange horse tied to one of the stalls. It was a fine horse and bore a saddle that had silver on it, a graceful rifle in a scabbard and two pearl-handled Colt revolvers hanging in holsters from the ornate saddle horn. He knew the horse did not belong to Matteo. There was sweat on its black hide and its four white stockings were flecked with mud. This horse had come from far away and not too long ago.

  Bone swung down from the saddle in a single, smooth motion, as if part of his horse had separated and detached itself, the human from the equine, in some primitive, mythical sense.

  Matteo blinked as if his eyes were playing tricks on him. He blew a plume of pipe smoke out of the side of his mouth.

  “A man came from the east with horses,” Bone said. “I do not know his name. Culebra killed the Mexican working for the Baron boy, stole the horses. Baron and the stranger are following the Apaches on foot.”

  “On foot?”

  “I think the stranger wants his horses back.”

  “Smoke?” Aguilar asked.

  Bone shook his head.

  “Why did you not kill the young Baron?”

  “You did not ask me to do that, Matteo.”

  “No, I did not. I want the boy to suffer as I have suffered. I want the father to lose all the land he stole from my family.”

  Bone said nothing. He knew how deep Matteo’s hatred went, but he also knew that Martin Baron had bought the Box B land fair and square. When he looked into Aguilar’s eyes, he could almost see the eyes of the demon spirit that possessed him.

  “Put your horse up, Mickey. I have someone I want you to meet. Then I will tell you what I’m going to do with Martin Baron. Did you see him?”

  “No, I did not see Martin. Why?”

  “I have plans for him.”

  Bone walked his horse to the stables. Aguilar went into the house through the back door. The door did not slam. It was as if a ghost had passed through the wall of the house.

  Bone could not follow the twists in Matteo’s mind. He seemed not so much a rancher, bent on building a good herd of cattle, improving his lands, as a man who was breathing a fire of his own making, a man who hated the Barons more than he loved the land he tended. Aguilar had plenty of land, but he wanted Baron’s as well, as if he cou
ld manage it with the small army of Mexicans he had trained like soldiers.

  Bone entered the back door. He heard conversation in another room as he passed into the kitchen. Matteo called to him from the front room.

  “Come on in, Mickey.”

  Bone walked down a hall that led to the living room. He took off his hat when he saw Luz sitting in a chair that faced him. Aguilar was facing a man whose back was to Bone.

  Bone did not speak. Luz did not smile. Matteo beckoned to Bone and stood up. The man stood up, too, but he did not turn around.

  “Mickey, I want you to meet a compadre of mine. From Mexico. He just got in a few minutes ago.”

  Bone walked around the couch and faced the man standing there. He did not know him, but from his clothes, the way he stood, Bone knew what kind of man he was. The man wore tight-fitting trousers, cut from fine cloth, a satin sash, polished kidskin boots, a full-sleeved shirt of blue silk, with gold cuff links and bright brass buttons. He did not wear a gun, but Bone saw a bulge in his sash that probably held a small derringer pistol. He was a swarthy man, thin, but muscular, with a pencil moustache and twin swaths of sideburns curving down the upper reaches of his jaws.

  Before Aguilar could make the introductions, Luz got up and left the room. Mickey tried to read her eyes, but they were vacant, her face drawn and tight, as if she had just heard bad news. Aguilar did not seem to notice that his wife was leaving. He was smiling as though he had a secret he was about to reveal, a secret that he thought was wonderful.

  “Mickey, I want you to meet Jules Reynaud, from New Orleans. He is a Frenchman who has known Martin Baron since he was a young man selling his fish to the merchants on the docks. He has told me a very interesting story about Baron.”

  Reynaud did not offer his hand, but stared at Bone with eyes that seemed sculpted out of polished obsidian; they were as black as coals, shiny as a crow’s wing.

  “You are an Indian,” Jules said, without emphasis.

  Bone said nothing. There was something oily and smooth about the man who did not have a French accent, only a slow drawl that reeked of black swamp water and muskrat scent. His hair was slicked down, black, smooth as rubbed mahogany.

  “Tell Mickey about your sister, Rey,” Aguilar said.

  “Ah, my sister, Camille,” Reynaud said, sitting down. “My sweet, sweet sister.”

  “Mickey, take a chair,” Aguilar said, sitting down himself.

  Bone sat where Luz had been seated, a feeling of edginess creeping upon him like the green slime of a fetid bayou. He had been to Louisiana once, had not liked its steamy air, its dank smell, its moss-dripping cypress trees, the snakes that swam its bayous, mouths whose insides were like cotton.

  “Tell him about Martin and Camille,” Aguilar urged, his eyes blazing with a frantic light.

  “There is not much to tell, really,” Reynaud said. “Martin was a young man when he came to New Orleans, a ragged runaway, with no home, no money. This was years ago, right after the Alamo fell, or just before. He was a mere boy. My father sold him an old boat, let him pay for it with fish he caught.”

  Bone said nothing. He tried to imagine Martin as a youth, could not picture him that way.

  “Martin seduced my little sister,” Reynaud said, looking directly at Bone. “Do you understand the meaning of ‘seduce’?”

  Bone shook his head.

  “My sister was a virgin. She had not been with a man. Martin deflowered her and left her with child. When my father found out, he was furious. He wanted Martin to marry Camille. Martin refused. My father wanted to kill Martin. He challenged him to a pistol duel.”

  Reynaud paused.

  “Does he understand me?” Jules asked Aguilar.

  “I understand,” Bone said.

  “Martin accepted the challenge. His second was a man named Richman. The duel was at dawn, on Lake Ponchartrain. Martin shot my father dead before my eyes. My father, Emile, did not have a chance. His powder was fouled and did not ignite.”

  Bone made no comment.

  “It was not fair and square,” Reynaud continued. “I think Martin’s friend somehow squeezed water into the barrel of my father’s pistol. Martin did not attend the funeral, nor did he speak to Camille after that.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Bone said.

  “No, Mickey, it was two years ago that this happened. Camille has a daughter and no husband. Martin knows about her, but he does not see her.”

  “I thought you knew Martin when he was a boy,” Bone said.

  “I did. He did not deflower my sister until she was mature, sixteen years of age. He stopped to pay his respects to my father, and stayed the night. He went into Camille’s bedroom after my father was drunk. I was away on business in Baton Rouge. When I returned, Camille told me of her seduction.”

  “Did she have proof?” Bone asked.

  “I did not need proof. I saw the way Martin looked at my sister. He told her he had left his wife and family.”

  “You do not believe Jules, Bone?” Aguilar asked.

  “This does not sound like Martin Baron.”

  “Do you mean the seduction or the duel?”

  “The seduction,” Bone said.

  Aguilar laughed.

  “He was the only one who could have made Camille pregnant,” Reynaud said.

  “Why did you come here?” Bone asked.

  “Ah, don’t you know? I have come to kill Martin Baron. And Matteo here tells me you will help me.”

  Bone looked at Aguilar. Matteo nodded in agreement.

  “Martin will not be easy to kill,” Bone said.

  “I will challenge him to a duel of honor.”

  “What if Martin does not accept?” Aguilar asked.

  “I will shoot him dead on the spot,” Jules said. “And you, Mr. Bone, will make sure that I kill Martin, even if you have to shoot him in the back.”

  “Bone, you take Jules to Baronsville. I believe the second he spoke of was Martin’s friend, Ken Richman. Richman will see to it that Martin comes into town. Then, Jules will challenge him to a duel.”

  “I do not like to do this,” Bone said.

  Jules and Matteo exchanged looks.

  “Do you work for me, Mickey?” Aguilar asked.

  “I have done work for you, Matteo. This is not work I do. This is, how do you say it? In back of the face.”

  “Treachery,” Jules said.

  “I do not know,” Bone said. “You say that this duel you fight is of honor. I see no honor in this.”

  “Are you on Baron’s side?” Aguilar asked, his tone tinged with anger.

  “I am on no side,” Bone said. “I would not kill an enemy this way. It is the way of the fox, the snake, not the way of a man.”

  Reynaud drew himself up, his thin lips tightened in a frown of indignation.

  “You talk of honor,” Reynaud said. “Martin showed no honor when he deflowered my sister and left her without so much as a farewell.”

  “That is what you believe,” Bone said.

  “And you do not believe him, Mickey?” Aguilar asked.

  “I do not believe Martin was a snake in this. He fought a duel with this man’s father. He did not owe this man’s sister anything. She gave herself to him. She opened the blankets to him.”

  “Why you—” Reynaud started.

  “Calmate,” Aguilar said. “Do not get angry, Jules. Bone does not understand civilized ways. Do you, Mickey?”

  “I have seen civilized ways,” Bone said. “I have stolen cattle and horses and I have helped my people kill to get back the land that was taken from them. But, I have shown my face to my enemies. I have not talked behind their backs and told them one thing when I was going to do another.”

  “I don’t need this man,” Reynaud said. “I know where to find Richman. I know how to bring Martin to justice.”

  “Mickey, do not go against me,” Aguilar said, an ominous tone to his voice.

  Bone looked at Aguilar for a long moment bef
ore he spoke. Matteo had given him a home and paid him money. Now, it was time to go back to his wife, to his family, to his people. If he did this thing that Matteo wanted, he would be asked to do another, perhaps to rub out Anson Baron. And, he did not want to do that. He did not care about Martin, but he did not like Jules Reynaud. And now, he did not like Matteo Aguilar, who had brought a snake into his house to kill rats. If Matteo was not careful, the snake would turn on him and fill him with poison.

  “Matteo,” Bone said. “I am going back to my people in the mountains. I will see my wife and I will make sons to take my place in this world. I do not help this man. I do not have a taste for the blood of any Baron.”

  “A curse on you, Mickey Bone,” Aguilar said. “And a curse on your family, your people. Get out, get out of my sight, you bastard.”

  “I will be gone within a day,” Bone said. “I will help you with the horses and then I will leave.”

  Bone turned to leave. He was stopped by the lash of Jules Reynaud’s words.

  “If you warn Martin I’m coming after him, Bone, I’ll kill you, too.”

  Bone turned and looked at the Frenchman.

  “Be careful you do not try to kill too many. This is Texas, not Louisiana. We do not buy and sell slaves here.”

  Bone left the room, walked out the back door without making noise. He was not angry. He was relieved that he would soon be leaving this place where snakes writhed and coiled and hissed in the bushes. If he stayed with Matteo, worked for him, one day, he was sure, he would be bitten by him or one of his friends.

  Bone looked once more at the black horse that he now knew belonged to Jules Reynaud. He wondered if he ought to steal it when he left. No, he decided, Matteo would hunt him down if it took all the days of his life.

  Bone wanted no shadows following him when he left Texas, a place that had once been his home, but was no longer. Perhaps his people would take him back. Perhaps his woman would forgive him for leaving her to go with Matteo Aguilar. Perhaps he would no longer be an outcast, as he had been all his life.

  11

  BARONSVILLE, TEXAS, WAS just a scrub of a town, barely out of its early childhood in that year of our Lord, 1861. Martin Baron had not had much to do with the creation of the budding hamlet, lending only his family name as his contribution. But, Martin did derive an income from Ken’s sale of land and city plots, money he desperately needed to survive.