Home of the Brave (19 page)

“Yer wrong, it’s still the
Nashville Grant,” Whipple contradicted.

“The change has been
recent,” Thomas said.

“You been back in the last
two weeks?” Whipple asked.

Thomas shook his
head.

“It’s the Nashville
Grant.”

“No,” Thomas shook his head
again. “There’s been some kind of misunderstanding and Mr. Austin
has reapplied to the State.”

“There’s been some kind of
misunderstandin’ or another about this here parcel of land from the
get-go,” Whipple said. “The original application fer the grant was
made in 1822 by some seventy-odd folks from Nashville, Tennessee.
They called themselves the Texas Association, but Colonel Austin’s
map showed it as ‘the Nashville Company’.”

Thomas and Jane both
nodded.

“Well, as usual it took the
Mexican government over two years t’ approve the application. But
by then the money had done run out so the lawyer for the Texas
Association, a man by the name o’ Robert Leftwich, paid the fees
his-self and in 1825, he sold the grant t’ a group o’ Tennessee
investors.”

“Yes,” Jane agreed. “There’s
another map among those that Mr. Austin gave us that refers to this
parcel as Leftwich’s Grant.”

“That’s ‘cause by the time
that the Tennessee group was about ready t’ start bringin’ settlers
in, the Mexican legislators done revoked the permit.”

Thomas nodded. “Colonel
Austin explained all that to me. Before I left he told me that he
was preparing to go to the Coahuila State Capitol where he intended
to reapply for the original Nashville Company grant in his name and
– someone...” He looked at Jane questioningly. “Do you remember
Austin’s partner’s name?”

“Samuel May Williams,” she
said. “I think he’s Mr. Austin’s secretary, not his
partner.”

“Well see,” Whipple said
with a grin, “that there’s the problem. Colonel Austin was supposed
t’ apply for the grant in the name o’ the group in Tennessee that
bought the contract from Leftwich. Now some fella from Tennessee
name of Sterling C. Robertson is suing the Mexican government and
Colonel Austin over it.”

“Where does that leave us?”
Jane asked.

Whipple shrugged. “I sure
ain’t no lawyer, but I been in Mexico since the war ended and I can
tell you that the courts here are real, real slow. It could be ten
years before y’all have title to yer land. If ever.”

“What are we going to do,
Thomas?” Jane asked.

Thomas shook his head. “I
have no idea.”

“The summer’s almost gone,”
she said. “We have to find a place to build a winter
camp.”

“If it was me,” Whipple
said, gesturing with his good arm, “I’d just go west and lay claim
to some land this side of the Colorado. It’s real pretty country.
Real pretty.”

“That’s not included in any
of the land grants,” Thomas replied.

Whipple nodded. “I
know.”

Thomas looked confused. “How
would we perfect title to the claim?”

“If the truth be told it all
belongs to the Comanches anyways,” Whipple said, “but the Mexican
government ain’t never gonna recognize that.”

“So what does that mean to
us?” Thomas asked in confusion.

“You just take what you want
from the Comanches, claim it as yours by right o’ conquest, and
then argue in front of a judge ten or twenty years from now when
somebody tries t’ take it away from y’all.”

“What if we lose in court?”
Jane asked.

“If y’all last twenty years
and gather all the cattle over there you’ll be so stinkin’ rich
that y’all can appoint yer own judges or hire yer own army,”
Whipple said. “Hell, y’all can start yer own country, if y’all
want.”

“Why don’t you do it?”
Thomas asked.

“Me? I’d go loco if I had to
live under a roof for very long. I like this life I’m
livin’.”

Thomas looked at Jane. “What
do you think?”

“I’d like the idea better if
we had more men. You won’t be able to convince the Comanches that
our twenty vaqueros are a hundred like you did the
Huecos.”

“Do you have the money to
pay for a hundred men?” Whipple asked.

“Yes,” Thomas replied. “We
have enough to pay another hundred for four years or two hundred
for two years.”

“That’s if we don’t sell any
cattle,” Jane said. “And we have a decent herd already. Barring
disaster, money should be no problem. What are you thinking,
Captain?”

“I’m always getting’ men
comin’ t’ me wantin’ to ranger,” Whipple replied. “But we’ve got a
full complement so I have t’ turn ‘em down.”

“What kind of men?” Thomas
asked.

“Soldiers, mostly.
Militiamen from the southern states and a few regulars that don’t
wanna go back north.”

“Deserters?”

“Could be.”

“I don’t care,” Jane said.
“Send them our way.”

“I can do better than that,”
Whipple said. “I’ll go with y’all. But we’ll need to take a little
detour t’ pick up the rest of my company first. The Comanches won’t
be happy t’ see us.”

“Why would you risk your
life and the lives of the men in your company for us?” Jane asked
in amazement.

Whipple gave her a grin.
“That’s what I get paid t’ do. Besides, Colonel Austin told me that
he wants the Comanches pushed clear out of the state of Coahuila or
defeated. Since the Comanches don’t take so good t’ bein’ pushed,
defeatin’ ‘em will be a whole lot easier if they come t’
me.”

August 30, 1829

Montauk Point, New
York

“His name is Quincy,” Anna
said defiantly, “and I don’t care if you like it or not,
Father.”

“I didn’t mean that I didn’t
like the name,” Yank protested. “I just meant that I’ll need to
teach him to fight by the time he can walk so that he can defend
himself from all the other little boys that’ll tease him for having
such a sissified name.”

Marina had the infant if her
arms. “You can call him whatever you like but if he ever calls me
granny, grandma, grandmother or anything similar, it’s you I’ll be
coming after, Anna.”

“Why couldn’t I have been
born to normal parents?” Anna asked.

“Just lucky, I guess.” Yank
walked to the window and looked out to watch Paul Van Winkler who
was currying Yank’s horse. “What does Paul think of your
Quincy?”

“Who knows?” Anna answered.
“He’s a near mute. One day I decided not to speak to him until he
spoke to me. He said good morning as I came down for breakfast and
good night when he went up to bed.”

Marina carried the baby to
the window beside Yank. “Why is he brushing your horse?”

“He probably doesn’t think
the animal’s properly cared for,” Yank replied.

“No, that’s not it,” Anna
said. “When the sun’s up he thinks that he has to be working. He
knows that it would be rude to go into the barn and start pitching
hay while you’re here so brushing your horse is his
compromise.”

Marina chuckled. “He’s the
neatest man I ever saw. When we got here he was arranging things in
the pantry like it was a store display.”

“Oh, I drive him mad by
putting things in the wrong place,” Anna said with a giggle. “He
simply cannot understand why I would do such a horrible thing. He’s
dismissed a dozen Montauk cooks because they were too
messy.”

“I guess we know why he
never got married,” Yank said.

September 17,
1829

Colorado River, Coahuila,
Mexican Province of Tejas

“I think I may have died and
gone to heaven,” Jane said breathlessly. “I never thought I’d ever
see a place more beautiful than Montauk Point, but this is it. Look
at that grass. And it’s autumn. Imagine what it’s like in the
spring?”

“No ocean,” Thomas said
dryly. “Other than that, it’ll do.”

“We can build the ranch
house there.” She pointed. “And we’ll take the trees from there to
open up that meadow behind it. We can build a water-powered lumber
mill on that stream and just float the logs down to it.”

“You may have to settle for
a log cabin. Most of the men we’ve picked up are soldiers. I doubt
any are experienced carpenters.”

“They’re all first or second
generation pioneers, Thomas. I’d be surprised if any of them would
be daunted by house building.”

“Before we do any house
buildin’ we need to put ‘em to stockade buildin’,” Captain Whipple
said. He pointed. “We’ll start by enclosin’ that
pasture.”

“I’d suggest guard towers at
each entrance to the valley,” Thomas said. “We can post lookouts on
those high points in line of sight and they can communicate with
lanterns or signal mirrors.”

“Maybe the Comanches won’t
bother us,” Jane said. “They’ve kept their distance so
far.”

“They’d rather not tangle
with a group as big as ours if they can avoid it,” Whipple said.
“But once they realize that we intend t’ stay here, they’ll be
comin’ t’ discourage us.” He pointed at a connecting valley. “The
land beyond opens onto a grassy plain about eight miles that a-way.
I don’t know how far west it goes but all the herd animals use it.
When the buffalo are migratin’, y’ can hardly see from one side
t’other of the herd. The Comanches can’t risk losin’ that huntin’
ground. They’ll fight t’ the death t’ protect it.”

Thomas leaned on his saddle
horn. “What shall we call it?”

“Van Buskirk Ranch, of
course,” Jane replied.

“Too long.”

“Ah. I like
that.”

“Like what?” Thomas
asked.

“Too Long Ranch. It sounds
kind of oriental.”

“That’s stupid,
Jane.”

“How about Two Alone Ranch
then?”

“Two alone,” he repeated. “I
like that.”

November 1, 1829

Two Alone Ranch, Coahuila,
Mexican Province of Tejas

When the stockade was
completed in October, Thomas had decided to cut out the older cows
and drive them to the market in San Felipe de Austin. A month and a
half later, he returned with eleven cowhands, a mason, two
carpenters, a blacksmith, two cooks, six fugitive slaves and eight
women.

“Those women are whores,
Thomas,” Jane insisted.

He chuckled. “That must be
why they wanted to come back with me even though I wouldn’t agree
to pay them.”

“It’s not funny. Your sister
and her baby will be here in the spring. Other families will be
following soon. We can’t have those kinds of women
here.”

“Every one of them can load
and shoot.” He handed her a roll of money.

She counted it quickly. “Is
this all?”

“Yes; after I paid the
Mexican tax collector at the stockyard.”

“How much was the
tax?”

“Fifty percent.”

“What?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t want
to start a fight with the Mexican army so I paid.”

“With all the extra men to
keep off the Comanches we just can’t make it on half the market
price, Thomas.”

“I know. Next year when
we’re ready for roundup we’ll drive them to New
Orleans.”

“New Orleans? Do you know
how far that is?”

“Not exactly but that
doesn’t matter. If other ranchers are doing it, we can
too.”

“What about the eight women
you brought back from San Felipe?”

“They can come to New
Orleans too, if they want.”

“That isn’t what I
meant.”

“I know.”

“Where are they going to
live?”

“They have
tents.”

“No. I won’t have
it.”

“Okay. Then you go tell
them.”

“Fine.”

He waited. “Well? Are you
going to tell them?”

“Later.”

He laughed.

December 25,
1829

Two Alone Ranch, Coahuila,
Mexican Province of Tejas

“Merry Christmas,” Jane
said, raising her glass. “God bless us every one.”

“Hear, hear,” a chorus of
voices replied.

They were all assembled in
the long house which served as a mess hall and meeting place. Jane,
Thomas, Miguel, who was the honcho of vaqueros, and Captains
Whipple and Lagrange of the Texas Rangers were standing at the head
table with glasses held high while a hundred eighty men and eight
women joined the toast.

“You should make a speech,
Thomas,” Jane said.

“They hear enough from me
every day,” he replied sitting down. “Let them eat and enjoy
themselves.”

The Comanches, who were
always watching from some distant ridge, had made no offensive
moves against the herd, the stockade or scouts. But no one expected
the peace to last.

May 30, 1830