Lords of the Land Read online

  There was no magic in her mother’s bed.

  Chapter 9

  A raw, blustery wind whipped in off the river. Hank Laird and Sam Blalock left the warehouse shortly before dusk and walked toward the ferry. They kept glancing at the sky, which was dingy and overcast, threatening another storm. For the past week hard rains had gusted inland from the coast, and like all rivermen, they harbored certain superstitions about the weather. Winters were seldom harsh along the Rio Grande, particularly in late January, and the signs indicated an uncommonly foul spring. That bothered them.

  “Never seen it fail,” Blalock observed, squinting querulously at the sky. “You no sooner get things headed your way, and sure as hell, up jumps the Devil.”

  “Aye, but let’s not be borrowing trouble, Sam. Likely it’ll take a turn for the better.”

  “Humph! Sounds to me like wishful thinkin’, Cap’n.”

  “Even so, we’ve always weathered ‘em before, haven’t we?”

  “Damned if that’s not a fact! Reminds me of the time we was making the run ‘tween Biloxi and Mobile. Judas Priest, what a night!”

  Laird merely nodded, listening with one ear. He’d heard Blalock tell the story countless times—days of long ago, when they were young deckhands riding out their first storm —but today his mind was very much in the future. And despite himself, he’d been dwelling on the exact thought Blalock had voiced only moments before.

  Everything was definitely headed his way, almost as though he had the magic touch. Since last fall, when he’d acquired the railroad charter, he had moved swiftly to tighten his hold on the lower Rio Grande. Not unlike a sleight-of-hand artist, he had used misdirection to beguile merchants on both sides of the river. The first step was to hire a survey crew and start them north, plotting a track line to Corpus Christi. But it was mere eyewash, and while everyone was congratulating him on his progressive views, he had quietly increased freight rates on his riverboats by another five percent. Then, with the utmost secrecy, he had ordered construction of two new steamboats, to be delivered in New Orleans late that spring. Before their arrival on the Rio Grande, he would announce that the railroad venture was more than he’d bargained for; to complete it would require time and massive investment. By stalling, forever crying the need of greater funds, he had the perfect excuse to raise freight rates from time to time. And the longer he stalled, the stronger became his dominance of the river trade. Which was precisely as he’d planned it.

  But lately he’d begun to wonder how long his luck would last. Everything was too smooth, too simple. All his life he’d had to fight for what he wanted, and it wasn’t in the nature of things to win without a struggle. It made him leery, increasingly watchful, for if a man’s plan went too well that was invariably when it happened. Up jumps the Devil! And anyone caught flat-footed generally took a real shellacking. So he had to be on his toes, ready for a fight, careful not to lower his guard. Sooner or later it was bound to happen, he told himself. Always had and always would. Merely a matter of time.

  Then, too, there was the matter of Angela. Only yesterday, after four months of silence, he’d received her note of apology. It was a terse note, lacking even a pretense of humbleness, but indicated quite clearly her desire for reconciliation. With subtle understatement, she had admitted defeat, requesting his pardon, and asked him to return home. Yet, upon reading the note, Laird had experienced little of the satisfaction he’d anticipated, and no feeling of triumph at all. Indeed, he was struck by a curious sense of guilt.

  Though Angela made only casual reference to Trudy in the note, it was easy enough to read between the lines. Apparently her relationship with their daughter had suffered greatly because of his absence; Angela had finally submitted not out of regret toward him but out of fear she would lose Trudy. For Laird, it was a Pyrrhic victory. His purpose was never to humiliate Angela, and he’d had no intention of using Trudy as a pawn in their struggle. Yet, however inadvertently on his part, that was the upshot of the whole affair. Even worse, it was the girl who had suffered most, victimized by his thoughtlessness and stubborn pride. All in all, a sorry performance.

  Perhaps a less superstitious man would have dismissed the matter as unfortunate, one of life’s minor tragedies, and gone on about his business. But Laird was of the firm belief that personal wrongs, especially those visited on a loved one, inevitably returned to haunt a man. So he was on edge, doubly vigilant. The accommodation with his wife, won at Trudy’s expense, merely reinforced his uneasiness about business ventures. He waited for the Devil to jump him around every corner.

  Later, looking back on the evening, Laird would always ponder the curious blend of instinct and coincidence. Trouble intercepted them as they approached the ferry. It came in the guise of two Brownsville merchants, Fred Tate and Oscar Whitehead, who were among Laird’s most outspoken critics. The men hurried forward, halting Blalock in the midst of his story, and Laird felt a prickly sensation on the back of his neck. He knew, even before they spoke, that this was no chance meeting.

  “Laird! Hank Laird!” Whitehead called. “Hold on a minute.”

  The men stopped in front of Laird, ignoring Blalock, and Fred Tate jerked his chin toward the warehouse. “We were just on our way to see you.”

  “Were you now?” Laird gave them an amiable smile. “Well, I suppose I can spare a moment. What’s on your mind?”

  Neither of them seemed quite sure how to start, but Whitehead finally took the lead. “The fact of the matter is, we’ve just come from a meeting of the Merchants Association. They’ve elected us their spokesmen.”

  “Oh, the Merchants Association, is it? Sounds quite grand, Oscar. Tell you the truth, though, I’ve not heard of it.”

  “Well, it’s new,” Whitehead admitted. “We formed it this afternoon.”

  “Uh-huh! And you say you’ve been elected spokesmen?”

  “That’s right. Fred and me, unanimous vote.”

  “Then I take it I’m your first order of business.”

  Whitehead fidgeted, glancing quickly at Tate, then shrugged. “Heft, no need to pussyfoot around, I guess. The plain fact is, we’ve got it from a pretty reliable source that you never intended to build a railroad.”

  “And the same little bird,” Tate interjected, “tells us it was nothing more than a dodge to protect your steamboat business.”

  “So the merchants sent us here,” Whitehead added, “to ask you straight out whether or not it’s true.”

  “This source of yours,” Laird mused, “would you mind telling me his name?”

  “Sorry, that’ll have to remain privileged, leastways for now. But you can take my word for it, everybody thinks he’s pretty damn reliable. Otherwise we wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.”

  “Aye, trouble’s the word for it. You see, boys, you’ve already tried and convicted me—without letting me face my accuser—and that puts a bad taste in my mouth. I’ve no liking for kangaroo courts, nor the men who sit on them.”

  “It’s not a kangaroo court!” Whitehead declared hotly. “It’s a merchants association, same as they’ve got in almost every town.”

  “Every town except Brownsville,” Laird countered. “You’ve never felt the need for one before. So evidently your reliable source must’ve put the bee in your ear.”

  “What if he did?” late edged forward with a feisty scowl. “Now look here, Laird, quit beatin’ around the bush and give us a straight answer. Is it true or not?”*

  “Tell you what, Fred. You give me the name of your source, and I’ll give you a straight answer. That’s fair enough.”

  “Like hell!” Whitehead grunted sharply. “You’re still hedging, and we mean to get to the bottom of this or—”

  “Or what?” Laird regarded him with a brash impudence. “You’ll take your business elsewhere, is that it, Oscar?”

  “By God, we’ll go to Austin, that�
��s what we’ll do. We’ve got somebody that can talk for us now, and he’ll convince ‘em you put one over on everybody, Yankees included.”

  “You should never threaten me, Oscar. It’s not in your best interest.” Laird paused, regarding the men with a dour look. “To show you I mean what I say, you can report back to your merchants association and tell ‘em their freight rates go up another five percent tomorrow morning.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Laird. That’s extortion, and I’m warning you, we’ll never pay it. We’ll fight you!”

  “Now it’s ten percent,” Laird informed him. “Keep talking and you’ll ruin yourself, Oscar. Along with Fred and the rest of your crowd.”

  Whitehead sputtered to a halt, glowering at him with a look of blunted anger. Fred Tate appeared on the verge of saying something, but evidently thought it over and changed his mind. Laird waited, watching them with a look of amused contempt, then turned brusquely on his heel and walked off. Blalock fell in beside him, and after they’d stepped aboard the ferry, Laird glanced back at the two storekeepers.

  “You’re a grand pair, but spokesmen you’re not. Tell the boys I sent my regards. Ten percent, effective tomorrow.”

  Twenty minutes later Laird and Blalock crossed the plaza in Matamoros. Their plans for the evening were unaltered, and they proceeded directly to El Borrachito, the gambling dive frequented by rivermen. Laird was still chuckling to himself as they entered the door and walked to the bar. One aspect of the conversation continued to puzzle him, but all in all he was vastly amused, and he ordered tequila to celebrate the new freight rates.

  The bartender poured, producing a salt shaker and a bowl of freshly sliced limes from beneath the counter. Laird spilled salt onto the web of his thumb, licked it, and then downed the tequila in a single gulp. He bit into a slice of lime, slammed the glass on the bar, and pursed his lips as though his teeth hurt.

  “Awful stuff, bucko. Awful! But it does warm the innards.”

  Blalock grimaced, waiting for the tequila to hit bottom, and nodded. “Yeah, if it don’t rot your pipes. I’ve heard tell it’d peel rust off a boiler.”

  Laird laughed and turned, leaning back against the bar. His eyes wandered across to the gaming tables on the opposite side of the room. It was still early but El Borrachito was doing a brisk business. Rivermen mingled with Mexicans and a scattering of “tradesmen from Brownsville, all crowded around the tables with the murmured hush common to gambling parlors. Except for dealers calling the cards, and the musical clink of gold coins exchanging hands, the spell was broken only by the occasional curse of a loser. Laird’s gaze drifted past a faro table, then suddenly halted and snapped back to the players. He stiffened and pushed away from the bar.

  Joe Starling was seated at the table, directly opposite the dealer. A mound of coins was heaped in front of him, and his hands flashed across the layout before each turn of the cards. He was betting heavily and winning, laughing the expansive laugh of a fat man every time he raked in another pile of coins. Earl Roebuck stood at his shoulder, on the left, watching the dealer work the card box. True to form, Starling trusted no one, and he had his partner acting as a spotter.

  Laird nudged Sam Blalock with his elbow, and nodded toward the table. Though neither of them spoke, their thoughts followed along the same line. Joe Starling hadn’t been seen on the border for nearly a year, and it was no accident that he’d returned on this particular day. Nor was Roebuck’s presence to be discounted. The partnership had obviously endured, and such men rarely stayed together without the prospect of an unusually large payoff. It was clear now that they planned to collect at Hank Laird’s expense.

  Blalock and Laird exchanged a look, and this time it was the riverboat captain who nodded. Laird crossed the room, quartering off to the right, and paused for a moment at a monte layout. Then he walked toward the faro table, screened by the crush of gamblers, slowly weaving his way from table to table. Blalock held his position at the bar, shifting to a slightly better angle, and eased his hand inside his coat.

  Starling laughed, pulling in another stack of coins, as Laird moved past a player at the end of the table and halted. There was a momentary lull as the dealer called for new bets, and Laird tossed a Mexican gold piece on the felt layout.

  “Twenty says the fat man loses.”

  The gold piece bounced once, then came to rest in front of Starling, and he swiveled around in his chair. Roebuck took a step away from the table, eyes alert and wary, hand poised over the Colt Dragoon on his hip. Several onlookers quickly moved aside, leaving the three men in a pocket of silence across from the dealer. After a prolonged hush, Starling finally chuckled and shook his head.

  “Hank, you should never buck a man on a winning streak. It’ll put you in the poorhouse.”

  “Did you hear that now?” Laird grinned, glancing at the dealer with a look of amiable wonder. “I ask you, in all your born days, have you ever heard a worse bet?” The dealer gave him a weak smile, and his gaze swung back to Starling. “Oh, Joe, you have a fine way with words, indeed you do. But you’ve a short memory, and I’m thinkin’ tonight’s not your night.” He paused, still grinning, and cocked one eyebrow. “In fact, if I was you, Joe, I’d pull down my winnings and call it quits. Your luck just ran out.”

  Roebuck tensed. “You’re the one that’s pushin’ his luck, mister. Odds are all different, not like last time.”

  Starling quieted him with an upraised palm. “Hold your horses, Earl. Let’s hear what he has to say ... might be good for a laugh.”

  “Aye, a real bellywhopper,” Laird agreed. “But the laugh’s on you.”

  “Now, is that a fact? Why don’t you tell me-about it?”

  “I’ll not bandy words with you, Joe. I just took care of your friends across the river—”

  “How’s that ... my friends?”

  “Whitehead and his crowd. You stirred ‘em up proper— I’ll grant you that—but you forgot they’re a bunch of ribbon clerks. No backbone. So you can scratch the Merchants Association.”

  “Not yet, Hank. No siree! They’ll rally ‘round when the time’s right.”

  “There won’t be anything for ‘em to rally ‘round. You and your pal are headed downriver on the next boat.”

  “That’s one bet you’d best copper. I’m headed nowhere.”

  Laird’s brow seamed and his jawline hardened. “Twice now I’ve warned you to clear out and quit meddling in my business. It was good advice, and you should’ve taken it. Now I’ve no choice but to convince you the hard way.”

  “You’re loco! I’m here and I’m staying here ... and there’s not a goddamned thing you can do about it.”

  “On your feet, Joe.” Laird spat on his large-knuckled hands and rubbed them together. “It’s time somebody hauled your ashes.”

  Starling’s face blanched, and for an instant he seemed paralyzed with fear. Then his hand darted inside his coat and came out with a .41 Derringer. Laird struck, his fist lashing out in a shadowy blur, and the blow caught Starling flush on the jaw. His chair seemed to collapse beneath him, and he toppled over backward, the Derringer skidding across the floor. But even as he fell, Earl Roebuck’s arm moved and the Colt Dragoon appeared in his hand.

  A gunshot blasted across the room, and Roebuck reeled sideways in a strange, nerveless dance. He stumbled into the faro table, a bright red dot staining his shirtfront, then somehow straightened himself and slowly brought the pistol to bear. Almost as though he had winked, his left eye disappeared in another roar of gunfire, and the slug blew out the back of his skull. The impact buckled his legs, bowels voided in death, and he slumped to the floor without a sound.

  Laird glanced over his shoulder and saw Sam Blalock, ashen-faced, a navy Colt extended at arm’s length. A wisp of smoke curled out of the gun barrel, and as Blalock lowered his arm, Laird turned back to the table. He dropped to one knee, scooping the Derrin
ger off the floor, and backhanded Starling across the mouth. The blow jolted Starling out of his daze and he jerked half-erect, then suddenly went very still. The cold snout of the Derringer was pressed firmly between his eyes, and he heard a metallic click as Laird thumbed the hammer to full cock.

  “Your choice, Joe. The deep six or down the river.”

  Starling blinked, swallowed hard. Then he very gingerly nodded his head. “Down the river.”

  “Wise decision.”

  Laird lowered the hammer on the Derringer and stuck it in his pocket. Then he hauled Starling to his feet, dusted him off, and clapped a thorny paw around his shoulder. Starling glanced at the bloody mess wedged in between the gaming tables, but quickly looked away. Laird chuckled, and an ironic smile tinged the corner of his mouth.

  “C’mon, Joe, we’ll have a bon voyage drink. To you ... and Mr. Roebuck.”

  Chapter 10

  Hasta la vista, ninos mios. And mind you, now, be prompt!”

  Angela stood in the doorway of the school as the children filed past her. The girls went first, according to the rules of courtesy she insisted upon, each of them glancing at her with looks of shy adoration. Crowding close behind, the boys were all bashful smiles and restrained exuberance, their eyes lowered with respect. Once outside, however, any sense of decorum fast disappeared. The boys took off in a howling pack toward the creek, scattering the girls in their rush to be the first to reach the swimming hole. For a moment the girls stared after them longingly, then separated and trudged home to help prepare the evening meal.

  Inwardly sympathetic, Angela watched the girls fan out across the ranch compound. It was a man’s world—even for young boys yet to become vaqueros—and she sometimes felt disheartened that her little girls accepted a life of drudgery with the stoicism common to all Mexican women. Last fall, filled with a need to enrich her own life, she had organized a three-day-a-week school for the children of Los Lerdenos. The classes were split into morning and afternoon sessions, and separated by age groups. Even then, it was necessary to exclude those youngsters old enough to work, for the ranch now employed nearly three hundred vaqueros and there were upwards of a thousand children in the compound. Her hope had been to instruct the children in the basics of their own language, simple reading and writing to combat what she considered an appalling rate of illiteracy. But now, in early April, even that modest goal was still to be realized. The children were slow learners, and she’d discovered that centuries of ignorance weren’t to be overcome in a matter of months. With spring roundup already under way, and the compound a beehive of activity, she was looking forward to closing school for the summer. It would give her time to think, and ponder the wisdom of creating elusive dreams in the minds of the young.