Paxton Pride (27 page)

Vance was seated in the lobby, involved in a heated discussion with a German friend of his father's passing through on his way to Fredericksburg. Glancing up he saw Karen descending the broad, rose-lined ornate stairway to the lower floor. The sight of her stopped him in mid-sentence, and as he rose, the man with whom he was speaking turned to see what Vance was looking at. “Good God, man, is
that
the future Mrs. Paxton? I'd have thought the north too cold for such a flower.”

“It was. That's why I brought her back to Texas,” Vance answered as he hastily excused himself and hurried to Karen's side.

All conversation stopped in the lobby. Men stared with unabashed envy at Vance's good fortune. Women barely disguised their jealousy with catty glances and caustic comments on the impropriety of the young lovely's fine garment. Secretly they wondered who she was and how she had come by such a gown, for none had seen the like outside of
Harper's
. One young girl, usually the center of attention, found herself ignored by the two men at her side, so occupied were they in appreciation of Karen's lush figure.

Vance took her arm and escorted her to the dining room, causing the same effect among the patrons there as in the lobby. Their table was waiting and as he seated her he smiled with pleasure, finally able to show her Texas wasn't as barbaric as she had evidently thought.

Karen looked about, impressed anew with the Menger's elegance. The dining room was of polished maple, ash and oak. Tables set a discreet distance apart were covered with white, delicately laced cloth, each painstakingly embroidered with satin silver thread, each unique and every one a work of art.

The specialty of the house was a turtle soup whose hearty flavor was enhanced by a faint touch of cognac. Karen elected to try only a small bowl as an appetizer and followed it with one of the wild game dinners but Vance suggested she allow him to order, for she'd be eating wild game enough in the next weeks. He whispered to the waiter who bowed and left, returning seconds later with a silver wine cooler and a schooner of beer. “A half hour,
señor,
” the waiter said, pouring the wine for Karen.

Vance raised his beer to the light. “To us, and our new life.”

Their eyes met in warm silence, the silence of a thousand unsaid words and more of love, a silence of shared intimacy, of the knowledge and acceptance of commitment. Of the miles behind them and the years stretching ahead they gave no thought. Only to the moment, sparkling as the wine, as full-bodied as the beer.

“This is the house beer,” Vance commented, breaking the spell. “Made at the Menger Brewery. None better in the country. It's been a while and I've built up quite a thirst.” The waiter brought another large mug of beer, the dark amber fluid crowned with a high ring of creamy foam. Karen sipped her wine, a local vintage from the German vineyards to the north, slightly sweet but with a fresh, open-aired tang. And before the young lovers had time to think twice, the half hour was gone and the waiter returned with a huge tray held above his head.

Karen gasped in delight when a huge bowl of boiled shrimp—brought all the way from Corpus Christi, unknown to her, in a wagon load of ice—was placed in the center of the table. The jumbo shrimp, no more than a half dozen to the pound, lay pink and tempting on a mound of slivered ice. Small jars of sauces, white and red, appeared, followed by bowls of steaming sweet peas laced with tiny new onions, minuscule carrots, steamed and as sweet as if they had been candied, and a bowl of rice covered with sweet white sauce seasoned with desert herbs Karen had never before tasted. Washington or New York couldn't have offered better, and after four days of beef and beans, they fell to with a will.

An hour later, appetites appeased and idling over coffee, they were interrupted by the waiter who bore an envelope on a small tray. Vance ripped open the seal and read quickly. “Rode in a hurry. This was sent only yesterday. Pa was figuring pretty close when we'd arrive,” he said as he finished reading and folded the letter. Karen waited patiently. “It's business. I'm going to have to leave for an hour or so.”

“Must you leave so soon? I thought we were going to the
fiesta.
”

“We will. There'll be plenty of time. But I have to catch up with a cattle buyer before he leaves town.” He finished the last of his beer and started to rise when the look on Karen's face stopped him. He reached across the table and took her hand. “It's important, believe me. Or I wouldn't leave you. I'm sorry. He's leaving for Austin.…”

“All the same, I think it very rude of you, sir.” Karen remonstrated, only half in jest.

“I won't be long. Finish your meal, go upstairs and wait until I come for you. There'll be plenty of time. I'll be back around five and we'll wander around and see the sights. It will be cooler then, too. And later there'll be fireworks and probably some exhibitions. Any time there's a bunch of cowboys in town you can bet on a good show.”

He kissed her hand and walked away from the table, quickly crossing the dining room with his lengthy strides. Karen watched him in the mirror as he left. She blushed, remembering his touch as they stood by the river.
My, how forward I've become. But I am a woman now, not a maid in spring. I've found a man to love. Headstrong, perhaps, but he'll learn
. A look of impish determination hardened her features.
Wait in my room? Hardly, sir. You must be taught, a Hampton waits for no man
. And confident of her ability to tame the man she loved, she dropped her napkin on her plate and rose from the table.

“May I get you something else, ma'am?”

“Yes. A parasol, if you please.”

“At the desk, ma'am. The meal, did you …?”

“The meal was wonderful, thank you,” she said curtly, already walking out of the dining room.

She stepped out onto a board walkway and into San Antonio. San Antonio! A pretty name. Already the town was old. For over a hundred years white men had been living on the banks of the San Antonio River. She could feel the years weigh on her without moving from the front of the hotel. Across the street stood a ruined mission wedged against a warehouse of wood and limestone.
How sad it looks. Such a forlorn bit of rubble. Does no one care that a church lies in ruin?
She approached an old man who, with tobacco-stained moustache drooping down either side of his mouth, sat quietly in the shade. His face was wrinkled and sere, contoured by countless hours and days of wind and sun. “Excuse me, sir?” Karen asked.

The man looked up slowly, then seeing Karen, rose awkwardly. “Yes'm” he answered, his Voice ragged, with the years.

“What is that poor dilapidated building? Is it one of the missions?”

The old man peered into the bright light, looked at the mission whose battered facade reflected his own timeworn face. “Ma'am, that there's the Alamo. Been like that since March the sixth, 1836. Not a hand'll be lifted to repair it. Other missions, mebbe, but not that'n. There's some who find a right special beauty in the old girl's scars. No, ma'am. Long as she stands, she stays as she is, an' I got a feeling,” he added wearily, “she'll outstand us all.” Without further comment the old man stood waiting for the young lady's pleasure.

The Alamo! So that's it
. The old man was still standing, waiting for her to say or do something. “Thank you. Thank you very much,” she managed quickly, embarrassed at her ignorance. She walked away down the street, allowing the old fellow to sink back in his chair and doze off, remembering the old days, dreaming of the empty plains, now filled with men and cattle.

She wandered, taking in the sights and sounds. A beautiful, dusky Mexican girl, her hair braided in a black rope down her back, walked with fluid grace, all too aware of the supple young body dressed in a white peasant-style blouse and full red and blue and white figured skirt. Obviously against her will, she was accompanied by a fiercely scowling old woman dressed totally in black, her eyes constantly roaming to pick out the young men who winked and postured for the benefit of her charge. There strode with honest gait a German farmer, carrying a shovel and rake, followed by his son, sober-faced and wearing a flat-brimmed black hat years too old for him. A strikingly handsome
caballero
rode slowly down the street on a huge white stallion. The rider held the reins loosely with his right hand, cocked the left nonchalantly on his hip. His black hat was trimmed with silver discs and filigree, and a white shirt and red tie blazed against an immaculate black suit, the jacket short and the trousers almost indecently tight, but with gashes at the ankles where red wedges stood out in splendor. Karen twirled the parasol and switched it to her left shoulder to get a better look at him, quickly covered her face with the edge of the fabric as the man's dark, piercing eyes gazed coldly, challengingly into hers.

And what manner of others, all characters whose history she couldn't tell. A young Indian lad, taken from the prairies and forced to live with unsympathetic white men, stared at her with eyes of dark fire, full of questions and confusion. An old man carried a scythe in the crook of his arm and moved with head bowed toward some unknown destination. A cowboy with one arm missing and a horrible scar across his face limped along at the side of a young Mexican lad missing both hands, the result of an Indian raid. An old Indian fighter, famous the country over, dressed in buckskins and reeking of rancid tallow, proudly displayed the grisly patches of scalp—his vouchers he called them—taken from Commanches and Apaches. And there on the bridge, a hauntingly-distinguished looking man, face sallow and drawn, gazed into the emerald green water in which the long grass flowed in undulating waves.

She was on Commerce Street, the main street. Shops were decorated with red, white and blue bunting. Flags flew, some of them very new, others left over from before the Civil War, and with only thirty-four and thirty-five stars. The multitude of horses and wagons and people broke the baked earth into chunks and ground the chunks into dust which hung in a soft, choking cloud over the street and shops, filling the lungs of animals and men alike. Barely able to breathe, she broke from the white dust and crossed the river via a small picturesque wooden bridge, following a course suggested by the hotel clerk. Crossing a second bridge she entered the second of the town's two dusty centers of activity, Military Plaza. Right then Karen decided San Antonio was a town of infinite variety—more so even than Washington. Small abode shops butted up against larger wooden structures which in turn sat in the shadows of limestone walls. Brightly painted white facades contrasted with the faded gray of unpainted, weathered wood. Down a little alley she saw a hut made of branches and wattle, the roof thatched with grass. In the plaza a vaudeville house crowed the laurels of the artistic performance to be seen inside and she remembered the two other similar houses she had seen.
Macbeth
, the sign said, and a craggy Gaelic face haloed with red hair glowered at her from a gilded frame. Her favorite Shakespearean play, Karen had her doubts about the quality of the performance. A rustic production, more than likely. Still, she was intrigued and looked for the ticket office, only to find across another window was painted in block letters the message, “Open Every Night.” Open air stalls on every side offered vegetables, peppers, pastries and tools for sale. Ahead of her near a post stood what appeared to be a tremendous mound of mesquite branches which had somehow managed to sprout two pair of legs. Drawing closer she noticed a short tail, and closer still, an ear tip covered with soft gray hair. As she rounded the load of wood the rest of the
burro
came into view, its long fuzzy face, sad eyes and sagging velvety ears the very picture of doleful resignation.

She passed shops with names reflecting the cultural hodgepodge of the town. Her throat was dry and felt clogged with grit. A sign said Bar Room, and from behind darkened windows she could hear the tinkling of glasses and a rumble of talk punctuated with bursts of raucous laughter. She paused, considering whether or not to enter.
But why not? It can't be any worse than the Crow's Nest
. The Piper and his friends had taken her there many times. Surely, this Bar Room would prove to be as innocuous as the Crow's Nest. Besides, the San Antonians she had seen had been more than friendly. As if to reinforce the feeling, two ranchers passed by, each tipping his hat and muttering a polite, “Howdy, ma'am.” Her mind made up, she followed the sounds into the dimly-lit interior.

The double doors swung closed behind her and the chatter quieted immediately. Slowly her eyes adjusted to the dark. Around her were a number of tables, several covered with a scattering of playing cards and chips for gaming. Before her was a long counter with a brass rail near the bottom, not unlike the Crow's Nest. Half a dozen hard-looking men stared at her, glasses frozen part way to their lips. Two women dressed in cheap satin dresses, cut lower than hers and stained with sweat, stood among the men. The women's faces were smeared with rouge and their eyes and lips were heavily painted, an obvious sign of their profession.

Karen backed up hesitantly, then bridling at being upset by such as these, gathered all the Hampton
esprit
at her command and approached the counter, the men parting before her, one of the women turning and spitting on the floor before flouncing away to assume an angry, rebellious pose at a nearby table. And still the men stared, uncomfortable in her presence. An edge of fear caught at her but she stood her ground.
I will not back down. They will not drive me out
. Her defenses manifested themselves in the most gracious of smiles. “I would like some water, please.”

The barkeeper, a man of immense girth, stared at her thunderstruck. “Uh … ma'am … this here's a
bar
. It … well, it ain't no proper … uh … that is, we ain't supposed to … uh … ain't supposed ta serve no …” he glanced uncomfortably at the painted women at the end of the bar, “… unescorted ladies, ma'am.”