Lords of the Land Read online

  “Ready, Mama?”

  Trudy paused before the doorway, her face expressionless. She resented being pulled away from roundup on school days, and never let her mother forget that she attended only under protest. Yet she rarely neglected her own studies, and had proved an indispensable help in teaching the younger children. Angela loved having her near, felt they had grown closer working together, and for that reason was reluctant to close the door on the old storehouse she’d commandeered as a schoolroom. Once the classes ended, she would see little of her daughter until after fall roundup.

  “Yes, honey, I’m ready. Let’s go home.”

  Trudy followed her outside and they walked in silence for a few steps. Then the girl glanced around. “I thought maybe I’d take a ride ... see how the branding’s going.”

  “Isn’t it a little late? They’ll be quitting before long.”

  “I know, but there’s a couple of hours of sunlight left and that’s plenty of time.”

  “Time you could just as easily devote to your French lessons. N’est-ce pas?”

  “I’ll do it tonight. Cross my heart!”

  “Gracious, sometimes I think you’re truly envious of those boys.”

  “Who?”

  “Who indeed! Roberto and Luis, of course.”

  “Oh, them.” Trudy feigned indifference. “Who cares?”

  Angela laughed. “I suspect you know the answer to that. Or is it just a coincidence how your spirits improve after you’ve spent the day with them at roundup?”

  “Holy cow! They’re not even vaqueros yet, Mama. It’s their first roundup, and Ramon still has them working the horse herd.”

  “Yes, but that’s the first step, isn’t it, to winning their spurs?”

  “Sure, everybody starts out the same way.”

  “And you’re not even the least bit jealous ... that they have a head start on you?”

  “The only thing I’m jealous about is that they got their saddle sores honestly.”

  “I don’t understand, dear. Honestly how?”

  “On horses,” Trudy said wistfully. “I got mine riding a school seat.”

  “Perhaps that’s true. But you can also speak two languages --three, if you took your French lessons seriously—and those boys, I’m sorry to say, can barely write their own names.”

  “C’mon, Mama, please! I promised I’d do it tonight, and I will. De bonne grace. Honest!”

  Angela pretended to think it over, knowing very well she wouldn’t refuse in the end. Still, a few minutes one way or the other wouldn’t matter, and she enjoyed having the girl beside her on these walks through the compound. Not all lessons were learned from books, and she was aware that Trudy’s attitude toward her had undergone a slow change since the school began. Angela credited that in great part to the example set by Los Lerdenos.

  The compound had become a sprawling village, extending westward along the creek. Adobe houses were packed in tight clusters, one indistinguishable from the other, with scarlet ristras of peppers hung on the walls baked yellow by the sun. Wherever there was a patch of shade, old men sat and talked, smoking cornhusk cigarettes, while small children, clad only in cotton shirts, rolled and played in the dirt. For the women, the center of activity was the nearest well. Before supper each evening they gathered there to exchange gossip and draw the night’s water. With the approach of sundown and the return of their men, they hurried home, carrying the water in clay ollas suspended from a yoke that hung over the shoulders. Then the compound quickly became saturated with the pungent aroma of frijoles. On school days, however, the evening meal revolved solely around Angela’s walk through the compound. Not even a tortilla was cooked until the people had greeted her on her way back to the main house.

  Yet it was their manner of greeting rather than their words that mattered. Commonplace pleasantries were spoken with a warmth that bordered on veneration, and Los Lerdenos humbled themselves as though a queen were passing through their midst.

  Children paused in their play and drew back, watching silently. A woman with water ollas hung over her shoulders bobbed her head and murmured softly, “Buenos tardes, La Madama.” Several old men, withered vaqueros of another day, doffed their sombreros and rose from the shade of an abode. The eldest took a step forward, flashing a toothless smile, and addressed her with a personal reverence befitting his age and her station. “Coma esta, Dona Angela?”

  “Bueno, ancianito,” Angela replied. “And you?”

  “Vivo, La Madama. Graciadios! I think I will live another day.”

  “Que tal, Tomaso? You will live forever.”

  The men chuckled, captivated by her wit, and bowed in unison as she passed by. It was the same throughout the compound. Everything came to a halt the moment she appeared, and people edged forward, their cares forgotten, to exchange a word of greeting with La Madama. For Trudy, these walks were an endless revelation. By now, she understood that the feelings of Los Lerdenos involved something more than mere respect. There was genuine affection for her mother, almost a sense of love, and to a young, impressionable girl it was a persuasive force. Since the school began she had come to see her mother in a different light, vaguely aware that her own feelings of resentment and hostility were being tempered. She was no longer sure that her mother was wrong. Nor was she quite so confident that her father was right. Instead, there was now a blend of emotions, tugging her in opposite directions, and she found it all very confusing.

  At the stables, Angela kissed her on the cheek and cautioned her to be home before dark. A few minutes later, accompanied by her usual escort, Trudy rode out the front gate. But her mood had changed, and her thoughts were no longer on the roundup. She was thinking of Roberto, and something that had been on her mind since their last visit to the swimming hole. The day she’d learned about the magic of women and the weakness of men. Only now, it was no longer an idle daydream. On the walk with her mother that afternoon, it had become something altogether new and far more exciting. A bright hope fanned alive ... by her mother ... by some indefinable change in the woman. And perhaps in the woman’s magic as well.

  Late that evening, after supper, the customary battle began. Trudy had returned from her ride caked with dust, reeking of horse sweat, and Angela insisted she have a bath. Their nightly squabbles on the subject were by now something of a ritual: Angela alternately coaxed and threatened, and Trudy surrendered by slow stages. But tonight Trudy’s protests seemed curiously halfhearted, almost a formality. She complied, with only token resistance, and although surprised, Angela didn’t pause to question the ease of her victory. The servants were quickly ordered to fill La Madama’s porcelain bathtub.

  Trudy hated the tub. It had a virginal aura about it, with chubby little cherubs dancing through garlands of roses that ringed the sides and spilled out over the rim. The mere sight of it was a threat to her inner image of herself. She knew that no self-respecting vaquero would be caught dead in the thing, and she always approached it with the manner of a condemned man mounting the gallows.

  For Angela, the tub represented all the hopes and dreams she had for her daughter. It was feminine and graceful, a thing of delicate beauty, and possessed elegance enough for even the finest of ladies. Yet these were the very traits lacking in her daughter, who had lately taken to swearing in the ornate idiom favored by vaqueros.

  Sitting on a stool, watching the girl bathe, Angela was painfully aware of time and its fleeting quickness. Trudy would be thirteen in less than a month, still a little girl but fast losing her girlish ways. Already there was a budding of youthful breasts, and any day now she might become afflicted with the curse. Then she would have crossed the line, become a girl-woman, and each day afterward would be a day lost in the race against time. The girl was infatuated by horses and vaqueros, blinded by the excitement of ranch life, but she mustn’t be allowed to make the same mistake Angela had made. Trud
y must be sent to New Orleans, enrolled in a fashionable school for young ladies. There she would acquire culture and breeding, the gentility and polish so necessary to a suitable marriage. And it must be done soon, Angela told herself, within the next year or so. Otherwise the girl would be trapped forever. Bewitched by her father, failed by her mother, doomed to a life fit only for a penitent, or Mexicans. No, that mustn’t be allowed to happen. Never, under any circumstances—!

  “Mama, I was wondering.”

  Startled, Angela realized she had drifted off, star-gazing about the girl’s future. Trudy was immersed in water up to her chin, but there was an odd questing quality to her eyes, and Angela felt a sudden dread. Her daughter was going to ask her some horrid question about making babies. Or perhaps the curse. Maybe it had already happened, right there in the bathtub! She leaned closer, inspecting the water.

  “Yes, honey, wondering what?”

  “Well, mostly about Daddy, I guess.” A small frown puckered the girl’s brow, and her voice trailed off slightly. “Do you miss him?”

  Angela blinked, sat erect on the stool. “Why of course I do, sweetheart. I always miss your daddy when he’s away. You know that.”

  “Yeah, but do you miss him a lot? A whole bunch?”

  “Yes, honey, I do. Very, very much.”

  “Then if you miss him so much, how come he stays in town all the time? Why doesn’t he come home more’n he does?”

  It was a deceptive question, and Angela wasn’t at all sure that the phrasing was unintentional. Some months past she had written a note to her husband, apologizing for her behavior the night he’d walked out. Hardly an act of contrition, it was a calculated effort to bring him home and thereby restore herself in Trudy’s eyes. The note had the desired effect, and now, once or twice a month, he made the trip out from town. But he went out of his way to avoid her, devoting most of his time to Trudy, and it was clear to everyone that he considered Brownsville his home. Angela had gained little ground in the skirmish for Trudy’s affections, although lately, within the last few weeks, she’d noticed a lessening of tension. Now, confronted with it openly, she realized that tonight’s questions were a test of a different sort. The girl wasn’t nearly so innocent as she appeared, nor was she asking out of idle curiosity.

  “Your daddy’s a very busy man, honey. I know he’d like to be with us more often, but you’ve heard him say it yourself ... business comes first.”

  Trudy pursed her lips and nodded solemnly. “Maybe he just says that, though. Maybe it’s not what he really means. I’ll bet he’d come home more if you asked him to.”

  “But I have,” Angela assured her earnestly. “Honestly, sweetheart, I have.”

  “Not the way I mean, Mama. I can tell, just by the way he acts.”

  “Oh, really now—” Angela stopped, warned herself to go slowly. “All right, honey, why don’t you tell me exactly what you mean.”

  Trudy’s frown deepened. Her eyes wandered to the roses along the edge of the tub, and she began tracing a petal with her finger. “Well ... maybe if you asked him to make up ... then he wouldn’t be so grouchy ... and things could go back to being the way they used to be.” She paused, studied the rose with great concentration. “Don’t you think?”

  “I’m not really sure about the makeup part. In what way?”

  “Awww, you know. Kissin’ and huggin’ and ... all that stuff.”

  Angela knew exactly what her daughter meant. And she had the very strong suspicion that the vaqueros had taught Trudy as much about bulls as they had cows. Yet she saw opportunity here, the chance to heal old wounds. Not so much between herself and Henry—though that was within the realm of possibility—but between herself and Trudy. It was worth any price, even cozying up to Henry, if she could reclaim her daughter in the process. Before the opportunity could slip away, she seized it.

  “Honey, you know something? I’ve felt that same way myself for the longest time now. And it was foolish of me not to do something about it. So I’ve just decided. I’ll write your daddy tonight, and tell him about our little talk, and ask him to come home and make up. That’s exactly what I’ll do.”

  “Ooo, you will!” Trudy bounced out of the tub, sloshing water across the floor, and. threw her arms around her mother’s neck. “Honest, Mama, will you?”

  “Yes, I will, sweetheart. I certainly will. This very night.”

  Chapter 11

  On a sunny June afternoon Laird steamed into Brownsville. He manned the helm of the Border Queen himself, and fifty yards astern he was trailed by the Sam Houston. It was the maiden voyage for both boats, and Laird came into port with banners streaming and steam whistles blasting the traditional river greeting.

  A crowd of townspeople quickly gathered on the wharf, and more came running with every blast of the whistles. There was a buzz of excitement mingled with dark mutterings, for there had been no prior announcement concerning the new boats. Everyone knew that Hank Laird had disappeared nearly a month past; his activities, both business and personal, were the principal source of gossip in Brownsville. But only a handful of associates knew he’d gone to New Orleans, and the purpose of his trip was a closely guarded secret. Now it was a secret no longer, and like wildfire, word spread through town within a matter of minutes.

  While the crowd watched, marveling at the size of the Border Queen, Laird deftly maneuvered her to dockside. Close behind, Captain Lee Hall brought the Sam Houston to berth. Both boats were side-wheelers, the smaller one of conventional cargo design, with twin stacks and the pilothouse perched on top of the Texas deck. But the Border Queen was a floating showpiece, with triple decks, wide promenades outside the passenger staterooms, and a grand lounge large enough to accommodate a full boarding. Clearly a luxury craft, designed for comfort rather than cargo, nothing like it had ever been seen on the Rio Grande. It created an instant sensation among the onlookers, and considerable puzzlement. Everyone knew Hank Laird was no fool, but such a riverboat on the border certainly seemed a folly, and they began speculating as to what he had up his sleeve this time.

  Sam Blalock and Art Johnson were no less astonished than the crowd. The Border Queen was one secret Laird hadn’t shared with them, and the sight of her came as a complete shock. They went aboard to greet him with round-eyed wonderment, thoroughly confounded.

  Laird hurried along the lower promenade, hand outstretched, and pumped their arms vigorously. Then, before they could catch their breath, he hustled them forward and spun them around, facing the superstructure. He threw up his arms, grinning broadly, and swept the Border Queen with an elegant gesture.

  “Sam. Arty. Let me introduce you to a grand lady. Queen of the Rio Grande! And a lovely piece of work she is ... just lovely!”

  “She’s all that,” Blalock agreed cautiously. “But if you don’t mind tellin’ me, Cap’n, what the hell are you gonna do with her?”

  “Do with her?” Laird roared. “Great thundering cannon-balls! I’m going to run her back and forth with settlers and tradesmen and land speculators. We’ll haul ‘em in by the thousands!”

  “Thousands—where from—god a’mighty, Cap’n—what settlers?”

  “The settlers coming west, you great dunce. We’ll lure them right here, to Brownsville. Garden of Eden on the Rio Grande! By this time next year, we’ll have ourselves a land boom and a high tide of commerce all rolled into one. It’ll be a circus, bucko, A circus!”

  “I dunno,” Blalock grumbled. “Sounds a little bit like pie in the sky to me.”

  “Aye, but if you’re a dreamer, Sam, then you must dream big. And by the Living Jesus, this is it! Everything I’ve been planning since the war ended. The land’s here. The settlers are headed west. And if you haven’t already guessed, we’re the only ones with a way to get ‘em up the Rio Grande.”

  Laird laughed and smote him across the shoulder. “Go on now! Bite down on that and see
if it don’t taste sweet.”

  “Uh, Hank.” Johnson tugged at his sleeve, slowly got his attention. “Hank, I think you’d better have a talk with Warren Pryor.”

  “Later, Arty. Later! I’ve no time for him today.”

  “Maybe you’d better make time. He’s been awful nervous the last couple of days. Told me to get you over there the minute you pulled in.”

  “Nervous, you say? Nervous about what?”

  “Beats me. He acted like his jaws was wired shut. But he said it was important ... no, wait a minute. What he said was, it’s urgent. Something about the railroad charter.”

  “The charter!”

  Johnson nodded, suddenly nervous himself. “Yeah, that’s all he said. The charter.”

  Laird turned and walked off, hurrying toward town.

  There were several minutes of silence as Laird stared out the window at the river. The lawyer waited, watching him closely, expecting another outburst at any moment.

  “Last week?” repeated Laird at length. “Why in the name of Christ did they wait till then? Why not last month or even six months ago? Why last week?”