Paxton Pride (48 page)

March brought visitors to the ranch. Drifters, men of shady pasts and uncertain futures, men riding “the grubline,” as they called it, looking for a meal and a place to spend the night. Karen, hesitating at first, opened her table to such men only because such was expected of her. But after the first few, she accepted the custom as commonplace. No longer afraid, she lay aside her misgivings and opened the door willingly to one and all of good intentions, taking added comfort in the fact that either Ted or Billy always managed to be near on such occasions. Gradually, she learned to read the character behind the rough and oft-times fearsome countenances, learned a man could not be judged by the state of his clothes or the condition of his beard. The eyes were the real clue to a man's character, for in them he could hide nothing. Two such men, looking for work, were hired on at Karen's request and with Harley's approval. Karen's judgement proved sound for they were reliable, and the one who claimed to be a carpenter when he wasn't chasing cows, proved his word. Within no more than three days, work was well under way on the barn. Soon the walls were halfway up and the ranch was rapidly taking on the look of prosperity it had enjoyed before the raid.

The day after the
fiesta
, True and Karen sat down together and went through the PAX bookkeeping. Never one long on figures, and uncomfortable with the reckoning required, True was happy to let Karen do most of the work while he spun yarns that stretched back to the Paxton's first years in America. Later, it was decided the spring trip to San Antonio would have to be moved forward. Supplies were short as a result of the raid and arrangements would have to be made to cover their extra expenses incurred in the purchase of the cattle. Karen would make the trip in True's stead, for the drive had taken more out of him than he'd expected and he was in no shape, as he was reluctantly forced to admit, to take four more grueling days in the saddle. Harley balked at going all the way to San Antonio when Uvalde would have served amply, but the necessity of visiting the bank and arranging a delay in paying off the note made the difference. “If you're goin',” he grumbled, “you might as well pick up some lumbered wood for beds in the bunk-house, an' you'd better go on an' get a new wagon too, seein' as the big 'un burned. Lord knows we don't need no more mules.”

The next morning they left on horseback, Karen, Ted, Morning Sky and two of the new men, a long-legged sharp-eyed rider named Huller and a hard-bitten cowman who called himself W. Bell. What the “W” stood for, Karen never knew. Leading four mules to haul back the wagon they would purchase, they took the back trails, the same she had ridden once before with Vance. The mildly pleasant weather made the going easy and Karen, remembering her earlier experiences on the trail when she had been all helpless and useless, took great pleasure in refining and showing off her newfound abilities as a cook. Huller, trail-wise as any man, taught her how to make trail dessert, hardtack covered with brown sugar and fried in bacon drippings. Though not exactly what Karen would have called
haute cuisine
, she had to admit, after the first tentative bite, the concoction was tasty and a perfect complement to a trail-cooked meal. When, the second morning out, she woke before dawn and had the coffee going before the men woke up, she realized with some surprise and pride she was becoming what the dime novels so badly described as a “western woman.” Two hours later, Ted watched out of the corner of his eye as Karen broke into silent laughter. He didn't know, but she'd just realized she'd drunk two cups of coffee that morning, two of the blackest, strongest cups of coffee a man could want, and enjoyed them.

Heads turned as they crossed the San Pedro and entered the outskirts of San Antonio. Who was the tawny-limbed, golden-haired beauty who dressed in coarsely-woven blouse and flowery print skirt as the women kneeling at the creek? Who was the
señorita
dressed as
los Indios
yet with the manner and bearing of a
princesa
, one of noble birth, whose retinue was a half-breed Comanche and a pair of down-at-the-heel, dangerous-looking
gringos?
When the riders were close enough for the brand on their horses to be read, the women buzzed with excitement. A fine, eastern-dressed lady had ridden west to the PAX. If the
señora
was the same woman, she had changed indeed. The subject filled their day and, later that night, was discussed around the fires in a hundred
jacals
and
jacalitos
.

Once in town, Karen handed the list of supplies and money to Ted. If spent well it would barely cover their needs, but Karen felt confident of Ted's ability to dicker for the best possible price for, as True had told her, “No one drives a harder bargain than an Injun.”

“Would you not like one of us to ride with you?” the Comanche asked, upset at leaving Karen on her own. “Bell can go with you an' Huller can scout for the wagon.” Karen laughed. Admittedly, San Antonio could be rough at night, for despite the law's vigilance, there was no way Hodgdon's deputies could watch over every trouble spot. But her six weeks' stay had taught her more than a few things. The city was safe enough by day if one took care to stay away from the worst bars and
cantinas
where, on the slightest pretext, violence could bloom at any moment. “I learned my lesson the last time, Ted. I can find the bank easily enough. You go on. We'll meet at five in front of San Fernando Cathedral.”

Before the men could protest further, she confidently wheeled the sorrel and trotted the animal down a narrow side street. W. Bell looked at Ted. “Maybe I better follow her anyways.”

The Comanche considered briefly. Karen was his friend's woman, and while his friend was gone he felt responsible for her safety. Someone should watch the blonde one he had grown to respect and like. White women were strange creatures, this one more so than any other he had known. A man got a good feeling just looking at her. He scowled to himself. His friend was a fool to leave such a woman. “Keep out of sight. She learns fast, but does not know as much as she would like to believe.” His mind made up, he pointed Huller toward the wagon shops and turned his steeldust toward the stores where he would spend the afternoon.

Karen rode through the streets as if she owned them, unaware of the man who watched over her, who trailed her like a shadow. Six weeks in San Antonio had taught her much and she took great pleasure in her knowledge of the town, reveling in newfound strength and independence. The side streets wound among haphazardly laid-out
jacalitos
, crude houses built of sunbleached brick and bound thatch, tenanted in the main by the Mexican element of the city. Three children bolted from a side alley, laughing, shouting their enthusiasm, a barrel hoop rolling ahead of them. Each time the hoop wandered off course, one of the youths struck it with a stick and sent the makeshift toy careening forward. Karen reined in the sorrel as the children ran past in front of her. Suddenly they noticed her and stopped. Two boys and a little girl, their faces besmudged with the dirt of the street, stared with bright and innocent eyes at the vision before them. Here was a strange sight for the
barrio
—a
señora
dressed as one of their own but with hair shining like
el sol
, with skin like a
castellano
. The
barrio
was no place for such a woman.

“
Buenos dias,
” Karen said, remembering one of the few phrases learned from Maruja. The hoop, with no one to guide it, rattled off to the side and interrupted a flock of feeding hens who squawked their dismay and scattered in all directions. The commotion shattered the spell Karen's presence had woven around the children and they scampered back from the horse toward the safety of a nearby door, calling in shrill voices for their mothers to come and see the
señora blanca
. The way clear, Karen urged the sorrel down the passageway, emerging into Military Plaza and the early afternoon crowds choking the marketplace, not yet cleared for
siesta
time.

The Plaza hummed with strident cries of vendors and buyers alike, haggling over the slightest purchase as if their very lives depended on the gain or loss of a
centavo
or two. The air hung heavy with a thousand odors—peppers,
frijoles
, beef, the heavy smell of frying grease. Above all she was assailed by the sweet smell of eggs frying. Eggs! The PAX hadn't seen an egg since she and Vance had returned from San Antonio in November. Dismounting, she walked the sorrel in the direction of the smell, arriving at a tiny stand where an old woman, wrinkled and sere, sat behind a small brazier on which lay a slab of cast iron. To the woman's left was a wicker basket filled with eggs which, for a
peseta
apiece, would be fried to the
señora's
directions and rolled in a hot
tortilla
, freshly made. Karen's mouth watered at the very idea and, without thinking twice, she reached in a pocket and pulled out a half dollar, not stopping to haggle as well she knew she should. The
vieja
scowled and glanced sideways at her, no doubt wishing she had asked for double the price, then quickly patted out a
tortilla
and dropped the flat dough on one side of the grill. Seconds later a dab of grease sputtered on the other side. Staring as if she'd never before seen the progress, Karen watched the old woman break open the shell and drop the egg onto the sizzling plate of iron, sniffed appreciatively as the aroma flooded the air. Soon the sandwich, hot and greasy, was handed to her and she took the first succulent bites, laughing with the old woman as the yolk broke and ran onto her hand before she could lick it away.

Famished from the long ride since their early breakfast, she finished off the first egg in short order. The edge off her hunger, she led the sorrel away from the stand as she slowly ate the second, taking time to savor every bite. Across the way the bright sound of birds calling rose above the noise of the crowd and she ambled in that direction, discovered a series of stalls selling cardinals, mockingbirds and canaries in homemade wicker cages. She hadn't seen a canary since Washington. Only a little homesick, she stood and gazed fondly at the tiny yellow fluffs, lost in the gentle songs of the imprisoned birds.

The sound of bells rolled over the plaza. Twice the big, low bell rung. Two o'clock. There was little time left to get to the bank. Promising herself to return to the stalls and buy a pair of canaries for the kitchen at the ranch, she hurried away north, crossing the plaza and skirting the false front shops, stores,
casinos
, saloons and music halls which doubled as theaters.
Macbeth
was gone, replaced by the single word
Othello
. Evidently the same troupe was in residence, for the face of Othello was the same as the late Macbeth, save for darker skin and a new wig. Amused but with no time to look, she mounted and rode down the street past a woman who stepped out of Miller's Bar. For a moment the two women's eyes met. Karen turned in the saddle and stared hard. The prostitute was the same woman Bodine had known, the one he had driven from the carnal bed in which he planned.… The scene ran quickly through her head and she shuddered briefly.
Could that have been I, cowering in that horrible room filled with gunsmoke and fear so long ago? Long? No. Not even a year
.… It was hard to believe the changes that had taken place. She had been frightened since then, had plummeted to the depths of panic but two months past. She now saw the fear as the price she had to pay, for rather than breaking her spirit, the claws of despair stripped away the social trappings, tore away the last vestiges of the “belle of Washington” she now despised, and revealed in her place the resolute woman who, she marveled, had rallied to partake of the joy of life, and even now assisted in the management of one of the more important ranches in their part of the country.

Confident, she urged the horse onward, unaware of Bell who, hungry himself, stopped briefly to buy a
burrito
, hot beans wrapped in a
tortilla
. Ahead of her an unruly commotion among a group of teamsters effectively blocked access to Commerce Street. Unconcerned and in a hurry, she turned off the main road and took a side alley out of the plaza. When Bell looked up from paying for his food, she was gone. Cursing, he rode hurriedly down the street, forcing his way through the teamsters. Still he could not see her. He headed his horse for Commerce street where he would be sure to pick her up again.

Traveling but a dozen yards down the alley, Karen noted the course she had chosen would take her past the door of a secluded
cantina
fronting the lane. An unimposing structure, she paid little attention until the sound of coarse laughter, the tinkling of shattered glass and a shouted curse issued from the
jacalito
. She could afford to pass Miller's Bar without flinching, but here was an unknown place, away from the main road and help. She guided the sorrel to the opposite side of the street and kept a wary eye on the door, ready to break into a gallop at the slightest hint of trouble. So intent was she on the
cantina
she failed to see a brutish figure lurch drunkenly from one of the hovels to her left. The sorrel, made skittish by the sudden appearance of the man, danced back nervously, almost losing his rider. Regaining her balance, Karen tried to still the horse, to send him down the street away from the half-hidden shape in front of her, but a massive hairy fist caught the bridle, restraining all progress. Karen forced a note of calm into her voice. “Sir, I would suggest you release your hold.”

The rowdy leered up at her. Karen jerked on the reins but the man held tight, pulling the frightened animal's head down and reaching up for the coarse cotton blouse. “Talks nice,” he muttered drunkenly. “Let's see how she feels.” Karen slipped a booted foot from the stirrup and drove the pointed toe into the man's face, catching him low in the cheekbone and knocking him backward into a puddle of slop, refuse tossed from a nearby window. The sorrel, free, reared back as the cursing bully staggered to his feet, his hand swiping across the top of his boot and drawing a cruel-looking dagger from a hidden sheath.