Lords of the Land Page 9

  Pryor leaned back in his chair, hands steepled, tapped his forefingers together. “Well, it’s nothing more than supposition, you understand—guesswork, actually—but I believe you took delivery on the boats last week, didn’t you?”

  “Aye, ten days ago, on a Thursday it was.”

  “Then I suspect that’s the answer. Less than a week after you take possession of the boats, the legislature revokes your charter.”

  Laird turned from the window, his jaw set in a bulldog scowl. “You’re saying someone used the boats to stir up the legislature?”

  “Actually, it was the attorney general who brought things to a head, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is— someone used the boats as proof that you had no intention of building a railroad, and then laid out some heavy bribes in all the right places.”

  “That was part of the deal! The bastards knew all along I never meant to lay track. They even laughed about it, told me it was a nifty piece of work.”

  “Politics change, Hank. Last year you dropped a bundle in their laps, and this year someone upped the ante. On the face of it, I’d say it’s someone who’s been watching your activities closely.”

  “Watched!” Laird fixed him with a baleful look. “Are you saying someone had me followed ... spied on?”

  Pryor studied his nails, thoughtful. “Either that or else you have a traitor in your own camp. You’ll have to admit, the timing sort of strains the laws of coincidence. Offhand, I’d venture a guess that they had one of their own men bird-dogging your trail. Then the moment you took possession of those boats, the telegraph wires started humming between New Orleans and Austin. It all ties together quite neatly.”

  “They! You keep saying that, but who the hell are they?”

  “Hank, you know your enemies better than I do. Of course, the merchants here in town aren’t exactly your biggest supporters, so that might be a place to start.”

  “Aye, except there’s not a thimbleful of guts amongst them.”

  “Well, perhaps it’s a new group, someone we don’t know. Austin’s crawling with scavengers these days, and they’re all looking for an easy kill.”

  “I wonder. A new group or a ghost of the old?”

  “Sorry, I don’t take your meaning, Hank.”

  Laird grew silent, staring at a spot of sunlight on the floor. His expression was abstracted, a long pause of inner deliberation. Finally he glanced up, dismissed the thought with a brusque sweep of his hand.

  “No matter. New or old, it’s clear the legislature means to award them the charter.”

  “Yes, I think we can safely surmise that. Of course, according to my informants, the official order revoking your charter doesn’t take effect for thirty days. So it’ll be a while before we learn who’s at the bottom of all this.”

  “As I’ve just said”—Laird rocked his hand, fingers splayed —”it’s six of one and half-dozen of another. We know we’re in for a fight, and it doesn’t much matter who we’ll be fighting. What counts is that the fools have given us a little leeway in terms of time ... and we must use it to be prepared.”

  “Prepared! Now, hold off a minute, Hank. What kind of a fight are you talking about?”

  “The only kind bastards like that understand. A keg of gunpowder and a damn short fuse.”

  Pryor shook his head in exasperation. “It’ll never do, Hank. Not this time. Whoever pulled this off evidently has support in high places. That means he can call on the military, and there’s every likelihood they’ll back his play.”

  “Let them. By the Jesus, I’ll not roll over and play dead for anybody!” Laird flung his arm at the wharfs. “In case you’ve forgot, I just spent a fortune on a couple of boats, and I’m of no mind to sit idly by while someone cuts my throat.”

  “Come now, Hank. It’s hardly a matter of being wiped out. They’ll need a year, perhaps longer, to build a line from Corpus Christi. That gives you plenty of time to recoup your investment.”

  “It’s not the investment, you bloody fool! I’m talking about profits. In the next five years I stand to clear a million, maybe double that. Would you have me crawl off and suck my thumb instead of fighting?”

  “If you resort to violence,” Pryor said grimly, “they’ll ruin you. Take my word for it, Hank. These are evil times, and there are men in Austin who wouldn’t hesitate to use Yankee troops if it suits their purpose.”

  Laird brushed away the warning with a quick, impatient gesture. “I’ve fought Yankees before, counselor. And besides, I’m not all that sure they’re willing to risk another shooting war. Not even a little one. There’s lots of Texans that might like the idea.”

  Pryor gave him a bleak smile. “You may have a point. But then, a prudent man wouldn’t provoke violence until he’d exhausted all the alternatives.”

  “What alternatives?”

  “The courts.”

  “Carpetbagger courts? Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Oh, there’s no chance we would win. Not with the situation as it stands. But we could stall. An injunction here and an appeal there, it all take time. With a bit of luck, we might stretch it out to two years, maybe even three, before they lay the first foot of track.”

  Laird was suddenly very quiet, eyes boring into the lawyer. “Are you just trying to hold me in check, or do you really think it would work?”

  “I think it would work very well. As a stalling device, of course.” “Then do it. And if it falls through, I’ve a few tricks of my own to spring on the bastards.” “We’re back to gunpowder and short fuses.” “Counselor, the first rule of survival is that you never let the other man pick the spot for a fight. The idea is to sucker him along and take him unawares.” “I’m afraid that’s a bit too cryptic for me, Hank.” “Hell, it’s simple. You fight him on your own home ground.”

  Chapter 12

  The barometer level read 29.89 inches.

  Laird studied it a moment, knuckling back his mustache with a thoughtful frown. The mercury held constant, and after a brief deliberation he moved through the door onto the front porch. He walked to a cane-bottomed rocker and sat down, chin cupped in one hand as he watched the distant skyline.

  To the west, the sun went down over the creek in a great splash of orange and gold. But there was an ominous darkening to the south-southeast. He knew it had been raining on the coast for four straight days, and now the clouds appeared to be moving inland with uncommon speed. Clearly a storm was brewing, yet all the signs were at variance with the barometer. The mercury level hadn’t moved since he’d returned from Corpus Christi earlier that afternoon. It was a paradox, unlike any he’d encountered before, and it left him in a growing quandary.

  The door opened and Angela stepped outside. She crossed the porch and seated herself in a rocker beside him. All afternoon he’d been brooding around the house, withdrawn and curiously silent, even though she knew he was smoldering about the court decision. She felt it would do him good to talk about it, and she was concerned that he’d kept his rage bottled up within himself. It wasn’t characteristic of him, not at all his normal reaction to a setback; but she wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject, or his silence. She glanced at him hesitantly, exploring his face for any telltale change. At the supper table he’d hardly spoken, and now he had a faraway look in his eyes, as if he were staring toward something dimly visible in the distance. After a while she set the rocker in motion, determined to draw him out, hopeful he might respond if she took the oblique approach.

  “Trudy’s worried about you. When we were clearing the dishes, she told me you looked like a volcano.”

  “That so?” Laird roused himself, took a swipe at his mustache. “Where’d she get off to?”

  “Well, just between us”—Angela smiled—”she didn’t want to be around for the eruption. She’s doing her French lessons.”

  “Infernal nonsen
se. She’s got to where she mixes it in with Mexican, and I can’t understand half the jabber she throws at me.”

  “Oh really, Henry. Why do you insist on calling it Mexican? It’s Spanish! And so far as the French goes, all educated people consider it the universal language. One day you’ll be proud of Trudy. After all, it’s not everyone who has a daughter that can speak three or four languages.”

  “Aye, that’s a mortal comfort, no doubt about it.”

  His ironic tone carried little of the old sting. Over a dry and dusty summer, he and Angela had slowly worked out a truce. He no longer felt like a stranger in his own home, and though their lovemaking was sporadic, Angela had made a genuine attempt to discard her passive manner. It had been touch and go for a while, neither of them really confident that past grievances could be swept aside. But with time, and Angela’s curious appeal for compromise, there was a gradual discovery of unexpired emotions. Then, too, adversity had drawn them closer together; Angela exhibited complete sympathy with his legal problems, and supported him in a manner wholly unexpected. She was always there, willing to salve his pride, and within the last couple of weeks, the urge to be with her had become somewhat like the temptation to bite on a sore tooth. He found it difficult to resist, for the time spent with her and Trudy, who lately seemed to bubble with happiness, was a time that revitalized him for the fight ahead.

  Even now, despite his gloomy mood, he took pleasure in having Angela seated beside him. She was wearing a gingham dress, and its bright pattern, along with her smile, was a small cheerfulness in a gray day. He shifted in the rocker, part of his mind still focused on the skyline, and turned to her.

  “Pay no attention to my foul temper. I couldn’t be prouder of the girl if you’d taught her Gaelic. And that’s a fact. You’ve done a grand job.”

  “Well, thank you, Henry. It’s very sweet of you to say so.”

  “Simply giving credit where credit’s due. I should’ve mentioned it before, but the last couple of months I’ve started to feel like a one-legged man in a kicking contest.”

  Angela regarded him evenly. “Tell me about it, Henry. You’ve said very little, except that you lost the suit. Exactly how bad is it?”

  “Who knows?” Laird shrugged and glanced away. “When you’re dealing with carpetbaggers, you’re never sure of anything from one day to the next.”

  “Yes, but Warren Pryor must have some idea. Hasn’t he at least given you an estimate of your chances?”

  “That little runt! Damn me if he’s not as shifty as the Yankees. Just keeps telling me to be patient, and let him see what he can arrange.”

  “Well, perhaps that’s very good advice. I mean, he has filed an appeal, hasn’t he? That’s what you said.”

  “Aye, an appeal.” Laird’s voice was suddenly edged. “But in the same breath he tells me it depends on whether or not he can buy the judges. So he scoots off to Austin and leaves me to wonder what the hell comes next.”

  “You mean he’s trying to bribe them ... buy a reversal?”

  “Of course. How else does a man deal with carpetbaggers? We’ve been trying to buy a decision since this thing started, but the other side’s outbid us every time. It’s not a matter of law, never has been. It’s a matter of money—a bloody auction!”

  Angela was silent for a time. It occurred to her that corruption manifested itself in many forms. Seemingly there was a guise suitable to every situation, not to mention the individual man. The carpetbaggers and scalawags, venal men in a political marketplace, were corrupted by greed. Yet their corruption was a thing apart from that of bolder men, the visionaries and builders. With her husband, it was nothing so mean and petty as simple greed. Hank Laird had been corrupted by ambition and a thirst for power, some inner need to leave his mark on the land and its people. His corruption was on a grander scale, almost sovereign in dimension, and perhaps, upon reflection, altogether necessary in a world where integrity was forced to compromise merely to survive. Still, however much she excused his behavior, she could never fully share his compulsion, nor the vastness of his dreams. She would have gladly settled for a simpler life and the brash young Irishman she’d married so long ago.

  At length, she straightened her shoulders, took a grip on herself. “I suppose you’ve been right all along. Not that I approve, but it seems there’s no choice with Yankees.” She paused, thoughtful. “You mentioned the other side. Have you been able to find out who’s behind it?”

  A vein pulsed in Laird’s forehead. “I’ve no proof, but I’d wager my soul it’s Joe Starling. Everything we’ve learned— and that’s precious little—convinces me it’s somebody with a grudge. You see, it’s not the railroad he’s after—it was set up too crafty just for that—he’s out to ruin me.”

  Laird had reason to suspect a vendetta. Throughout the summer, he and his lawyer had fought a delaying action in the courts. But their every effort had been stymied with maddening regularity. At the outset, an injunction was denied and appealed, only to have the lower court’s ruling upheld. Then suit was brought charging that the legislature, because there was no time limitation or nonperformance clause in the original document, had revoked Laird’s charter without sufficient grounds or a proper hearing. Only yesterday, after a protracted legal tussle, that too had been dismissed in district court. It was now clear, based on Warren Pryor’s negotiations with the judge, that the decision had gone to the highest bidder. Someone was spending vast amounts of money, all the while hiding behind a battery of lawyers, to ensure that a new railroad charter would be granted.’ With some justification, Laird had little faith that he would prevail in carpetbagger courts. Though an appeal was to be entered, he’d already written it off as a lost cause.

  By late fall the mystery man would have his charter. That seemed a foregone conclusion, and while it grated, Laird was slowly shifting the focus of his attention to the months ahead. The real fight, much as he’d predicted in the beginning, would be fought on home ground.

  “Hindsight’s a grand thing,” Laird added without humor. “I should’ve killed the devil when I had the chance.”

  “Killed! Are you talking about Joe Starling?”

  “Aye, none other. I took mercy at the last minute and let him slip through my fingers. But it’ll not happen again. This time I’ll settle his hash for good.”

  “This time? I don’t understand, Henry. That sounds as if you expect to meet him again.”

  “Of course I do! Don’t you see, that’s been my ace in the hole all along. Unless he wants to lay an extra fifty miles of track around the ranch, then he has to cross my property to get to Brownsville. Naturally, he’ll try, and when he does, I’ll be there waiting on him.”

  “But you couldn’t win. If he has enough influence to control the courts—not to mention the legislature—then he could get some sort of legal order forcing you to let him build across the ranch.”

  “Even so, it changes nothing. I’m betting the Yankees will back down before a show of force. And the minute Starling sets foot on my property, I’ll send him straight to Hell. No warning, either. Not this time.”

  “What show of force?”

  “Why, a couple of hundred armed vaqueros. That ought to convince anybody, even Yankees.”

  Angela stared at him reproachfully. “Isn’t that a little cold-blooded, Henry? You’d risk the lives of our people ... and kill a man ... just to stop a railroad.”

  “Aye, that I would. Although it’s not so much a matter of stopping the railroad as it is saving my riverboats.”

  “Oh yes, how could I have forgotten? You and your precious riverboats. It wouldn’t be the first time you sacrificed a life to save them, would it?”

  Laird could see anger, resentment, and a trace of fear in her eyes. He shook his head. “Now it’s me that’s confused. I went through the whole war without losing so much as a deckhand, and proud of it.”

&nb
sp; “My god, Henry, are you that inhuman?” Something odd happened to her face. She paled, her mouth tightened, and there was a harried sharpness in her voice. “I’m not talking about deckhands. I’m talking about my son. Our son!”

  “You’re daft! I had no hand in that.”

  “Didn’t you? Think back, Henry ... where were you when it happened?”

  “Downriver, running the blockade. But what’s that got to do with anything?”

  “It has everything to do with it. If you’d been home— where you belonged—it wouldn’t have happened.”

  “By the Sweet Jesus! Are you saying the boy’s death was my fault?”

  “You knew there would be trouble that night. Admit it— you knew, didn’t you? But you still left us alone, took your boats, and just sailed off without a care in the world.”

  “We were at war, or have you forgotten? I had a duty to perform—responsibility! A man can’t turn his back on that— not in wartime—and you know it very well.”

  “Why not?” Angela demanded. “You turned your back on us.”

  “Where’s your reason, woman? I was no different than a soldier, don’t you understand that? I had to go, it was my duty.”

  “Oh for god’s sake, Henry! Quit hiding behind lies, face the truth for once. You were running cotton, not fighting battles. You could have gone the next day or the day after— anytime!”

  “You’ve a short memory, and a damn fine way of twisting the facts. We thought the Yankees were marching on Brownsville, everything pointed to it. I had to go that day or ...”

  “Or what?”

  “Or risk losing the cotton—everything I’d worked for— maybe even the boats.”

  “Of course! I couldn’t have said it better myself—always the boats. Forget your wife and children—leave them to the mob or the Yankees—but never, never risk your precious boats.”

  Laird flinched at the words, but he met her look. “That’s it, then, isn’t it ... the boy? All these years and you’ve never forgiven me.”