Paxton and the Lone Star (33 page)

Joseph nodded. The fish was solidly on the line, and he could start hauling it in. “Not only a stallion, but a winner, as you just saw.”

“By a fluke,” Ramez said, with a laconic wave of dismissal. “Sanchez's mare lost a step and was thrown off stride.”

“A man can always find an argument when he is afraid.”

Ramez had turned to jump down from the wagon, and spun around at the accusation. “You dare!” he sputtered.

“That's the problem. I dare and you don't.” Joseph shrugged and smiled wryly. “But then you have your reasons, and must bed your fears in your own time.”

Ramez's friends tried to restrain him, but the youth tore free of their grasp and stalked across the wagon bed to tower over Joseph. “Fool!” he spat. “You impugn the honor of the O'Shannons.”

“Not at all,” Joseph said mildly. “I am not the one afraid. You are. I only point out the obvious.”

A crowd had gathered to listen. Someone sniggered, but shut up the second he felt Ramez's eyes meet his. It was not wise to offend an O'Shannon. No matter how little one had, one could always have less.

Ramez was trapped. “Name your wager!” he blustered, trying to save face. “Name it!”

Joseph and True had been over the figures a dozen times. They had six thousand dollars between them, including Andrew's share of the money they had carried all the way from South Carolina. That and five hundred pooled from the others, plus the five hundred won from Sanchez, made a fair-sized purse. Joseph paused, waiting for silence, and then spoke out for all to hear. “Seven thousand dollars American money. In gold. A man's wager.”

A collective sigh hummed through the crowd. Ramez's friends quite suddenly looked uncomfortable and Ramez himself blanched. Having always received what he needed from his father, he had no money to speak of. And Luther would never agree to such a sum.

“Never mind,” Joseph went on blandly, as if he had known all along what the answer would be. “I recognize your problem. You are thinking of another excuse. Very well. I will save you the trouble and call off the race.” He started to walk away. His parting shot was icy with contempt. “You need fear no longer.”

A hundred eyes stared at him. Ramez felt sick to his stomach. “The land!” he blurted out before he could think.

“Land?” Joseph asked skeptically, stopping in his tracks. His heart thudded. Hook, line and sinker!

“A thousand
hectares
of fine land. The best there is. More than enough to match your sum.”

Joseph looked dubious. “That's seven dollars a
hectare,”
he said. “That's more than twice what some people I know paid for land some fifteen miles south of here,” he pointed out, in obvious reference to the land O'Shannon had taken from Medina. “Sounds a little steep to me.”

“Fifteen hundred, then,” Ramez said. “All I have.” A light sweat beaded his brow. “This land is better. It's closer to town. There's better water. My top offer.”

“Well …” Joseph didn't want to give in too easily, nor did he want to let this biggest fish of all get away. “How do I know you own this land?” he asked.

“I will bring the deed to Padre Salva. And you,
gringo,
will leave your money with him.” Ramez was regaining his confidence. The money was as good as his. He smiled to show what a silly matter it all was. “What better place to find my reward than the church? That is, unless
you
are the one now thinking of an argument.”

“Not on your life, sonny.” Joseph held out his hand. “We have a bet.”

Ramez ignored the proffered handshake. “You say when and I'll say where. Fair enough?”

“New Year's Day,” Joseph said without hesitation. “At ten in the morning.”

“The Ridge Road circle,” Ramez decreed. “With the start and finish at the end of the plaza at
Calle de la Quinta.
See that Salva receives the money,
gringo.”

“And you be sure the priest receives the deed. Until then?”

“I will be there, as will Torbellino. First to start and first to return.”

Those who had been listening scampered off to spread the news. Another race, this one between Ramez O'Shannon and the
norteamericano
with the ugly horse. And such a wager! So much money and so much land! This would be a New Year's Day no one would be likely to forget.

Joseph ambled toward the hotel and cut through the alley to the stables where True was busy rubbing down Firetail. “How's he doing?” he asked, his keen eye already noting that the stallion looked to be in perfect shape.

“Happy as a lark,” True said. He shook out the tow sack, refolded it, and waited. “Well?” he finally asked, trying not to appear too anxious.

“All fifteen hundred hectares,” Joseph said with great slow relish. “How close was it?”

“Could have had her by four lengths easy,” True said, getting back to work on Firetail. “When and where?”

There had been tension between the two for the past few weeks, but it had faded quickly once there was work to be done. Joseph recounted the conversation and enumerated the details.

“Better than two lengths,” True said, comparing the four lengths he thought he could count on to the two by which the white stallion had beaten Sanchez's mare. It might be a close race. He threw a blanket over Firetail and left him for Scott Campbell, who would rub him down again in a half hour. “I hope so, big brother,” he said, “I'll tell you what, though.”

“What?” Joseph asked, leading the way out of the stable.

“I think we have a race on our hands. A
real
race, this time. And just in case, I think we ought to take turns sleeping with our animal. Any argument?”

“Not a one,” Joseph said, his head wagging slowly up and down. “I saw that boy's eyes. He's a crafty little sonofabitch. If not before, then during the race. Watch him.” They stepped into the shade of Mama Flores's balcony.

A crowd of well-wishers, winners all, waited for True. Across the large open room, Don Raphael Sanchez sat in one of the large chairs by the fireplace, sipped a glass of wine, and waited to pay his debt. True made his way through the crowd, shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and invited everyone to the bar, where he said he'd join them in a few moments. “Ah, the thrill of victory,” Don Raphael told Elizabeth, who waited for True at his side. “Were it not for your beauty, señorita, I would deeply regret that Mama Flores introduced me to this
vaquero
of yours.”

“And I'm sorry someone as nice as you had to lose,” Elizabeth replied simply, smiling up at True as he joined them.

“My compliments on a race well run,” True said, stretching his lanky body into a third chair.

Don Raphael regarded True quizzically, at last smiled and produced a small sack containing the five hundred dollars he had lost. “Interestingly run might be a more appropriate term, don't you think?” he asked.

“Sir?”

“Come, come, my young friend.” Don Raphael jiggled the sack up and down and listened to the clinking of the coins. “I am an old man, one who delights in observation. I have spent a good many years studying horses and riders. Among other things,” he added, smiling in Elizabeth's direction. “You were holding back your remarkable animal. You took a chance on losing rather than claim the victory cleanly and without question.”

He chuckled and sipped at his wine again. “This puzzled me a little until a friend bore me the news of another challenge accepted. Another race. With Ramez O'Shannon.” His head bobbed up and down. “The white stallion, Torbellino, eh? Ah, clever, clever. I understand completely.”

True managed to look bewildered. “Mr. O'Shannon was watching just like everyone else. I don't see—”

Don Raphael made a little clucking noise and wagged his finger at True. “You have used me, señor.”

“I won the race fairly,” True protested.

“But of course. Please do not misunderstand me. I placed the wager, and I lost. You had no idea of how quick my animal was, and could have lost. Still—” His voice dropped and he leaned forward. “—you used me—how do you say?—adroitly. And though it has cost me, I am appreciative. Let me tell you something.”

Intrigued, True leaned closer, as did Joseph, who pulled up a bench and straddled it.

“I am a landowner of modest means, a man who survives by remaining neutral in great and small affairs alike. There is, however, a wind blowing through Mexico, and I am unsure of just how long I will be able to maintain this neutrality. I like you. You are smart and, I think, honest. I like Americans. They work hard and dare to dream.” His quick eyes checked the room. No one was paying undue attention. “This, now, is confidential, and I trust you will not repeat it. I was Cirilio Medina's good friend, and they killed him in cold blood. I was a friend to Bustamente, and he is deposed and dead. Though I must appear to be so, I am no friend of Santa Anna's, much less this Luther O'Shannon and the whelp he calls a son.” Don Raphael's eyes glowed with unmasked hatred, then quickly converted to his usual bland appearance as he remembered he was in public. “Anything that discomforts these people pleases me,” he went on in a normal tone, “so I am glad you won and hope you win again. And that my five hundred dollars—I see now why you insisted on dollars—will be of use in what you are trying to do. Fifteen hundred
hectares
will serve you quite well.”

Don Raphael's eyes narrowed and his voice grew hoarse. “It is little enough I can do for you now, but perhaps worth something. Torbellino is a far better horse than my mare, and when they raced he did not have to try very hard to win. He is very fast, and his rider is full of tricks, so you must be wary. I think you will beat him, though. If you do, there are those who will sell you cows for a very fair price, and teach you about this land which is different from that so far to the north. We are not bold, but that much we will dare. If you win.”

The smile returned and the old man stood and dropped the bag of gold coins into True's outstretched hand. “I will be here to watch, my friends.” He bowed deeply to Elizabeth, nodded his head to True and Joseph. “Señorita. Señores. Until we meet again, eh?”

In silence True, Elizabeth, and Joseph watched him leave. “Well, shit!” Joseph said, immediately adding a contrite, “Sorry,” to Elizabeth.

“Didn't have to try very hard,” True said, the words ringing in his ears. “There goes our two lengths.” He looked at Joseph. “Well? What do you think?”

“I think Andrew's gonna be mad enough to whip us both single-handed if we lose his two thousand. And I don't know as I'd blame him,” Joseph admitted ruefully.

“You
did
win today,” Elizabeth pointed out, trying to inject a ray of hope into the gloom.

“Yeah,” True said. “Today. What about Thursday?”

Joseph stood, swung one leg over the bench, and hitched up his pants. “I'll tell you what about Thursday,” he said with a grim smile. “Lottie may have a fit, but I'm gonna get out there, pretend that animal is the emperor of all North America, and rub him down myself.”

The crystal goblet exploded into streaming slivers of glass that sprayed outward from the stone fireplace and sprinkled the floor in front of the hearth. Luther O'Shannon tromped through the twinkling shards, pacing from one side of the room to the other. His boots clicked authoritatively on the tile, thudded on the rugs. Pride and a meticulous devotion to self-discipline were the two characteristics a man needed if he wished to be the cream that rose to the top of what O'Shannon metaphorically referred to as the scummy milk pail of humanity. These, with an accompanying sense of self-esteem, he had given his son—or so he had thought. And hoped. Only to find out that the silly ass … “Leave us!” he thundered to Lucita, who lounged in one of the great chairs next to the fireplace.

Lucita began to protest, but wisdom asserted itself. She shrugged, rose, and stalked petulantly from the room.

“Fifteen hundred
hectares!”
Luther roared, reverting to English as the door clicked shut behind Lucita. “Fifteen hundred of the very best
hectares
north of the Rio Grande. I gave you that land so you could make something of yourself.”

“I will,” Ramez retorted confidently. “Seven thousand dollars.”

“If you win.”

“I'll win. Torbellino will run circles around the roan.” He chuckled. “You should have seen him, Father, trying so hard to beat Sanchez's bay and just barely winning.” Ramez walked over to the table and poured a glass of
pulque
for himself. The milky white liquor gave off a spur aroma. He wrinkled his nose. A
peón's
drink. But good to sleep on.

O'Shannon sank tiredly into the chair Lucita had vacated. “You have had enough. Leave it!”

Ramez glared at his father, but obeyed.

“Did it ever occur to you,” O'Shannon asked patiently, “that this True Paxton might have heard of Torbellino's race with the mare?”

“Impossible!” Ramez snorted. “Why on earth would he and his damn brother make such a foolish wager then, when they know I can beat them?”

The elder O'Shannon tried not to sound too painfully aware of his son's shortsightedness. “Because perhaps they know more than you give them credit for knowing.”

“I think,” Ramez said, drawing himself up to his full height, “that you are being specious, Father. This argument is designed to keep me from doing as I wish. You gave me the land to do with as I pleased. I please to wager it on Torbellino's speed. When the race is finished, I will have land
and
money.”

“A wise man does not wager his land. The land he owns is the basis of his fortune. If he loses it, he loses all. I don't like it.”

“Because at last I will be independent of you?” Ramez asked softly. “Father, please. Stand aside in this matter.”