The Baron Brand Read online

  Rather, Ken Richman had nurtured Martin’s dream of a cattle empire, realizing that, with such vast holdings of land, Baron needed a city to bring in workers and builders, breeding families who would help the region grow. While there was still no great market for cattle, both Martin and Ken believed that someday the Box B would be the king of ranches, providing beef for the entire nation.

  Richman had laid out the plat of Baronsville, had lured the first settlers, the first merchants, brought in commerce, a newspaper, a preacher to found a church, a freight hauler, a banker, a saloon keeper. He was a man completely devoted to Martin Baron and Baron’s interests. Some called him an idealist and Ken did not deny that. Few, except for Martin and his son Anson, knew what Richman’s ideals were. While Martin had the vision that was based on the country, Ken’s vision included all of Texas, and even the world beyond.

  Ken’s office on Main Street was the hub of Baronsville business. It was in a small building next to the Longhorn Saloon. The Baronsville bank flanked it on the other side. Richman wanted to do business at street level, and he liked to take his lunch in the saloon and be close to the bank where he could take new residents and businessmen to open up accounts.

  The sign on the front door read: LAND OFFICE. Below it on a smaller sign were the words: WALK IN. Ed Wales read both legends and opened the door. He expected to enter an outer office and see a clerk or secretary seated at the front desk. Instead, he stepped into a large room with several chairs around a potbelly stove, and in one corner a single, large desk piled high with documents. A man stood with his back turned, staring at a large map. Next to the map was a sign with another legend that read: It is not enough to know how to ride a horse; one must also know how to fall off of one. Beneath it was a name painted in flowing script: Juanito Salazar.

  The man at the map turned around at the sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor.

  “Richman?” asked Wales.

  “I’m Ken Richman.”

  “I’m Ed Wales. I wrote you about starting a newspaper here in Baronsville.”

  “Yes, have a chair, Mr. Wales.”

  Wales sat down. “I’ve a lot of experience,” he began.

  “You’re from the east,” Richman said, “worked in New York, Boston.”

  “And Philadelphia. But I read your ad in Austin. Lot going on there. I didn’t bite then, until I saw your ad in San Antonio and talked to some folks who told me a lot of stories about the Baron family and the Aguilars. But, Austin is boiling over with news that hasn’t even reached San Antonio. Or here, I gather.”

  “Secession, you mean.”

  “Well, even though Houston fought it, Texas is now mixed in with the other states that voted to secede.”

  “Hell, Mr. Lincoln wasn’t even on the ballot here, Mr. Wales.”

  “I know. There’s going to be hell to pay. That’s why I was attracted by your offer to start up a newspaper out here. From what I gathered, news is slow in coming and not very reliable this far west.”

  “Yes. But, I think you misunderstood my advertisement.”

  “Huh?”

  “We already have a newspaper. You said you were interested in starting one here.”

  “Yes, I thought, that is, it was my understanding that you had no newspaper here.”

  “Oh, we have one, Mr. Wales. And, we’ve had three editors who said they had experience. None of them were worth a tinker’s damn as a publisher. I need a publisher.”

  “Well, I have published a newspaper,” Wales said.

  “Yes, I know. Someone came out here and brought me a copy of The Fort Worth Gazette. That’s why I paid for an ad in it. To get your eye.”

  “Well, it sure as hell did,” Wales said.

  “I wonder if you can make The Baronsville Messenger into a paper like that one.”

  “First thing I’d do is change the name. Make an alliteration of the banner.”

  “How’s that?” Ken asked.

  Wales smiled. He was a balding keg of a man with a frazzle of beard stubble on his face, crackling blue eyes, tobacco-stained teeth. The string of a sack of makings dangled from one pocket of his shirt.

  “Change it to some name people can remember. Messenger makes it sound like you’re preaching to them. You’ve got to knock people down. I was thinking of changing the name of The Gazette in fact.”

  “To what?”

  “Maybe The Fort Worth Sentinel. You know, troops on guard, that sort of thing.”

  “Because of the army,” Ken said.

  “Exactly. Mr. Lincoln, you know, offered Sam Houston fifty thousand Union troops to keep down any insurrection, help keep Texas in the Union. Didn’t work. Those troops aren’t down here. But, they will be and it won’t be for Texas’s benefit.”

  “What would you call our paper?”

  “Our paper?”

  “Yours and mine. I’d want a hand in it.”

  “Then, you’d be the publisher, Mr. Richman. And I’d be the editor.”

  “No. I want you to publish it. Hire your own editor if need be. I just want to be able to give you a story now and then.”

  “Or a bias on a story?”

  “Bias?”

  “The slant. The direction. The bullshit beneath the bullshit, so to speak.”

  Richman cocked a baleful eye at Wales.

  “Look, Mr. Wales, I’ll shoot straight with you. There is only one business here in this part of Texas. That’s the cattle business. And there’s only one man with the guts and brains to put his brand on every head of cattle between the Rio Grande and the Nueces. And that’s Martin Baron. Baron and his Box B Ranch are the reason I’m here and if you stay, they’ll be the reason you’re here. Have you got that?”

  “Clear as a bell. Will you call me Ed? And should I call you Mr. Richman?”

  Ken laughed.

  “You can call me Ken, Ed. And I hope that’s all you’ll call me.”

  “I’d like to see the shop. But, first, maybe you can explain that saying you’ve got on your wall there. Who’s Juanito Salazar? I never heard of him.”

  “He worked for Martin Baron.”

  “A greaser?”

  Ken’s jaw hardened. “Juanito was an Argentinian. He knew cattle better than any gringo.”

  “I meant no offense.”

  “We don’t call Mexicans greasers in Baron country, Ed. We respect them. If it weren’t for Mexico, there wouldn’t be any Texas. And we depend on Mexican vaqueros to take care of the cattle and other stock.”

  “Sorry Ken, I thought the term was in widespread use.”

  “Not on the Baron range, it isn’t.”

  “So, was this Salazar some kind of philosopher?”

  “He was, but he was more than that. He was a man who knew the meaning of loyalty. He knew cattle, but he also knew men. I wish you could have known him.”

  “So do I,” Wales said. “Now, how about a look at the newspaper shop?”

  “First, we’ll go next door to the Longhorn and see what Paddy’s got set out to eat. Do you drink spirits, Ed?”

  “I drink what the boss drinks.”

  Ken stood up and extended his arm and hand across the table. “We’ll get along, Ed.”

  “I’m sure we will.”

  “One thing.”

  “What’s that, Ken?”

  “Since you mentioned putting a new name on the newspaper, it struck me that you’re right. We need another name. Messenger just doesn’t cut the mustard.”

  “No.”

  “Anything in mind?” Ken asked.

  “I’ll give it some thought.”

  “I had a thought. Do you think Texas might have to fight the Union?”

  “Yes, Ken, I think we will.”

  “Then, we ought to have a militant banner for the newspaper. A name that has some warning to it.”

  “I agree.”

  “How does The Baronsville Bugle sound?”

  “Hell, Ken, it sounds just fine. Perfect, I think.”

&
nbsp; “Good. You put it in type and we’ll send a man to Austin and have him get us the news before San Antonio does.”

  “I’ve already got a man there, Ken. And, better than that. I’ve got one in Washington. If you’ve got a post rider, we’ll get the news in here.”

  “Damn, Ed. We think along the same lines, I reckon. By God, we’ll put Baronsville on the goddamned map.”

  “It already is,” Ed said.

  “God, I wish Juanito was here. You two would get along.”

  The two men shook hands.

  Ed Wales wondered if he and Ken Richman would really get along. He sensed that he was being measured against the character of a dead man, Juanito Salazar. He vowed to learn more about the Argentinian if he stayed in Baronsville. Evidently, Salazar had cast a long shadow.

  12

  PEEBO SEEMED SURE of himself. He took the lead as if born to it, walking at a steady gait, following the horse tracks on the churned-up ground. Anson followed, not because he was unable to read the wide swatch of hoofprints left by the Apaches and the herd they had stolen, but because it was Peebo’s business, mostly; all but one horse belonged to him, and besides, it was his idea to walk down the Apaches and get their stock back.

  “They’ll slow ’em down soon,” Peebo said.

  Anson looked at the ground. It was plain that the horses had still been running at the place where they were now, less than a mile from the jacal the Indians had burned down. “Yeah, or they’ll wear ’em out quick.”

  “Bastards,” Peebo said.

  “You reckon they know we’re following them?” Anson asked.

  “I reckon.”

  Within another half mile, the tracks changed. The ground was not so roughed up, the space between forehooves and hind ones had lessened. Anson studied the tracks carefully. The Apaches had flanked the stolen horses and had them walking in a straight line. A half hour later, the tracks began to curve toward the south, toward Mexico.

  Anson’s feet began to chafe and he knew he was growing a blister on his right foot. The ground was rough, uneven, strewn with small pebbles. Small islands of grass became treacherous lumps underfoot. Peebo didn’t seem to be bothered by his boots or the terrain, so Anson did not complain.

  An hour later, Peebo stopped. Anson drew up behind him. As he watched, Peebo studied the ground, walking around in little circles. He picked up a small stone, then another. He rubbed both on his pants leg, handed one to Anson. He popped the other in his mouth, rolled it around like a chunk of hard candy.

  “Keep you from gettin’ too thirsty,” Peebo said.

  Anson looked at the pebble. It had dirt on it, was oval shaped, with a small indentation in it. “Are you touched, Peebo?”

  “Try it, son.”

  Without waiting, Peebo set off again, following the horse tracks. Anson rubbed the small stone some more and then gingerly put it into his mouth. He tasted the dirt, the iron in it. As the stone became salivated, he rolled it inside his mouth as he had seen Peebo do, then tucked it into one cheek. The rock did seem to take away some of his thirst. As he walked, he shifted the stone from cheek to cheek until it lost its earthy savor.

  After the best part of another hour, Peebo stopped again, resting in the shade of a mesquite tree. His face glistened with sweat, but he made no move to wipe it off. Anson pulled out his bandanna, started to touch it to his forehead.

  “Be a lot cooler if you leave the sweat on,” Peebo said.

  “What?” Anson stopped the motion of his hand in midair.

  “You leave the sweat on, it’ll help cool you down.”

  “You are crazy,” Anson said.

  “Look, son, when I started ranchin’, I took off my shirt when the sun got hot. I wiped sweat offen my forehead and my hatband. Then, an old hand told me what sweat was for.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “Why, for coolin’ down the body, same as shiverin’ in the cold makes you warm. You leave that sweat on you and you won’t burn up in the heat.”

  “I never heard such,” Anson said.

  Peebo laughed. “What in hell did you think sweat was for? Makin’ you stink to high heaven?”

  “I never thought about it much.”

  “Well, son, it’s nature’s way of givin’ you a cool bath in the heat of the day. Sweat is good. Damned good.”

  Anson cocked his head, stared at Peebo with a quizzical look on his face. “Are you funnin’ me?” he asked.

  “No, I ain’t. I’m just as hot as you are. And, I’ve got me a bandanna in my pocket. My feet hurt like twenty kinds of hell and my back’s burnin’ like it was scalded. But, I ain’t wipin’ my sweat off and I ain’t takin’ my shirt off so’s I can blister like a roasted crawdad.”

  Anson stuffed the bandanna back in his pocket, flashed Peebo a sheepish grin.

  Peebo made the pebble in his mouth click against his teeth as he grinned at Anson. “You learn quick, son.”

  “Why do you keep callin’ me son?” Anson asked. “You and me are ’bout the same age.”

  “It’s just a way of talkin’. It don’t have nothin’ to do with how old you are.”

  “It makes me feel like I’m a kid. Or like you’re treatin’ me like a kid.”

  “Well, I don’t know you well enough to call you by your Christian name. And, besides, Anson ain’t an easy name to remember.”

  “Neither is Peebo.”

  Peebo laughed. “Well, call me son, then, if you want to.”

  “I’ll call you by your name,” Anson said. “And I wish you’d learn mine.”

  “Aw,” Peebo said, “you take all the fun out of conversation. I call you son ’cause I like you, see? If I didn’t, I’d call you Baron or boy.”

  “You’d better not call me boy,” Anson said, and he was serious.

  “No, son, I won’t,” Peebo said, and his grin made Anson’s anger melt like candle wax under a flame.

  “Let’s be gettin’,” Peebo said, and he lurched away from the trunk of the mesquite. “Feet hurt?”

  “Like fire,” Anson said.

  “We come to a crick, we’ll stick us some mud in our boots and maybe we won’t be walkin’ on blisters.”

  “I already ani.”

  “They’ll turn to callous soon enough.”

  “Not soon enough,” Anson said, and Peebo touched a finger to the brim of his hat in mock salute.

  Peebo picked up the pace as the day wore on, but Anson could not tell if the horse tracks were any fresher than when they had first started out. He felt as if they were walking in a giant maze. Everything looked the same, the mesquite, the brush, the land, the sky, and the sun bore down hotter on them with each wearying step. Peebo seemed bent on winning a race and did not look back to see how Anson was doing. If anything, Anson would have sworn that Peebo’s stride kept lengthening. The man showed no signs of letting up.

  Anson’s side began to ache and the stone in his mouth had dried out, leaving him with a powerful thirst. He wondered if the Apaches were headed for water. Surely they must be thirsty, too, and they would have to water the horses or the animals would start foundering, one by one.

  Peebo finally looked back at Anson, just after they broke into the open plain after wandering through a labyrinth of mesquite and cactus that left Anson with the feeling that they would never find their way out.

  “We’re gainin’ on ’em,” Peebo said when Anson caught up to him. “Look at them fresh horse droppings.”

  “They’re still steaming,” Anson said.

  “I’d say them Apaches ain’t more’n a half hour ahead of us.”

  “The horses must need water,” Anson said.

  “They been drinkin’,” Peebo said.

  “How?” Anson’s heart felt as if it had fallen a foot through his chest.

  “They got water bags or gourds or somethin’,” Peebo said. “Didn’t you notice where they been stoppin’?”

  “No,” Anson said, feeling foolish.

  “Well, they been st
oppin’ long enough to give the horses some of the water they was carryin’.”

  “I never noticed.”

  “Hard to see, if you ain’t lookin’ for it. But them horses have been takin’ on water.”

  “Shit,” Anson said.

  “If you’re hopin’ for a drink, son, you’re gonna have to kill an Injun for it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean these bastards are stayin’ away from water holes and cricks. They know we’re chasin’ after them.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Every so often I seen a set of tracks where one of the bunch pulls away and waits awhile, a-lookin’ down their back trail.”

  Anson felt the bottom go out of his stomach. “Damn,” he said.

  “A ’course they don’t know if we got water or not.”

  “I’ll bet they do,” Anson said.

  “You might be right. Well, we’d better pick up the pace if we’re gonna catch ’em this day.”

  “I don’t think we have a chance,” Anson said.

  “Why, son, we’re right close.”

  “That’s what worries me, Peebo. Even if we do catch up to them, they’re more than we can handle. Those Apaches could be waiting in ambush for us. We’d never see them until it was too late.”

  Peebo frowned. “I been keepin’ a careful eye out for any such.”

  “You can walk right up on ’em and not see ’em.”

  “I know,” Peebo said. “I mean I heard such tales.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Well, we got to get them horses back. They’re all I got in the world.”

  “I’d like to get my horse back, too. He’s a pretty nice gelding.”

  “You break him?”

  “No,” Anson said. “A—a friend of mine, Juanito, he broke him. The horse means a lot to me.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “The horse? Oh, I call him Sal, short for Salvador. That was Juanito’s middle name.”

  “So, you got a personal feeling for this horse. Sal.”

  “Yeah,” Anson said.