Hers the Kingdom (64 page)

Willa and Pablo walked toward the orchard. He was taller by a head than she, and thick. He wasted no words: "Do you know who killed my father?"

     "No," she answered, "we surprised a gang of rustlers—about six in all. They had killed the old man, Francisco, and we went after
them. We found them in a small box canyon near the Harding place. They fired first, your father fell at once. He was dead by the time we reached him. We stopped for him, and they got away."

     Pablo nodded to the ground.

     "Did you see any of them?" he asked.

     Willa looked at him squarely, then she nodded.

     "Did you know any of them?"

     Willa continued to look at him, not wavering. Pablo frowned, repeated the question.

     "I may have known one, but I don't know if he was the one who fired the shot that killed your father."

     "What is his name?" Pablo asked.

     "I'll tell you his name," Willa answered, "but I want something in return."

     Her anger spilled over then. There was nothing in his eyes that could match the cold fury in hers.

     "I want them caught, every one of the men who came onto my land and killed Francisco and your father. I can tell you a name and a place, and I can give you a description of each man and his horse. You will have to find out the rest. But first, I want you to do something for me."

     He was wary now, but he waited to hear what she had to say.

     "I want an army, Pablo. I want men who can fight, who will be a match for any who come onto my land to kill and steal."

     Pablo walked over to the old split-rail fence, leaned back on it, the heel of one boot caught in the lower rail so that he looked the part of a man who had all the time in the world.

     "How many?" he asked.

     "How many will it take?" she answered.

     "You are prepared to pay?"

     "It's to be a business proposition, then?" she asked, just a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

     Pablo shrugged.

     "I can pay, you know that."

     He nodded. "I will return in two weeks with fifteen, no more than twenty
vaqueros.
"

     Willa walked a few steps from him, turned her back and clasped her arms together. Pablo waited. Finally she turned, exhaled deeply and said, "Manuel Rodriguez. Calabasas."

     "How do you know this?" Pablo asked.

     "Once, twelve years ago, two men were arrested on the ranch for smuggling. Rodriguez was one of them. I saw his face that night. It was the same man."

     "And the others?" Pablo pressed.

     She gave him some details, descriptions she had written on a notepad that same day. She did not need to refer to the notes because she remembered everything. She saw the faces of the men, their horses, in her dreams, night after night, riding around and around the canyon, shooting and then riding again in the same long, leisurely loops.

     Pablo left without a word, but Willa seemed not to notice. She found herself gripping the fence rail so hard that a splinter lodged in the palm of her hand. She did not take it out, but stood looking at it, pleased at the pain it inflicted.

     She had made up her mind. She would fight.

     She found Thad in the barn and announced Pablo's arrival.

     "I know," Thad said, "I sent for him."

     This puzzled Willa, and for a moment deflected her from the subject she had meant to talk about.

     "Why?" she asked. "How did you know where to find him?"

     Thad did not look at her, but busied himself with a steam gauge he had been trying to fix.

     "I got Trinidad to tell me," he said, adding, "she didn't want to. I convinced her."

     "But why?" Willa insisted, "I want to understand."

     Still he wouldn't look at her. "I thought he had a right to know that his father was dead."

     Willa sat down on a decrepit chair, steadying herself when
it wobbled. "Of course," she said, "I thought of it, too, Thad. But Ignacio had made such a point. . ."

     "You were looking at it from Ignacio's view. I was looking at it from Pablo's."

     She nodded slowly, agreeing. Or seeming to agree; she wasn't sure what, exactly, she felt.

     "I've asked him to stay," she said, "I've asked him to hire some
vaqueros
to help us protect our herds, and our people."

     Now it was Thad's turn to look to his mother with surprise.

     He would say to Sally, later on that day, that he wished, just once, his mother would do the expected; he wished, just once, he could understand what makes her do the things she does.

     And Sally had said, "You can see things from Pablo's view but not from your mother's. Why is that?"

Thad had not expected Joseph to be so adamant. "I think it is a dangerous idea, hiring
vaqueros
to patrol the ranch."

     "I don't see why," Thad countered. "The law won't do anything about it, and we've complained. The sheriff himself told me it would take every one of his deputies to go after the thieves who've been ransacking our herds—and he said he didn't think the taxpayers would think much of the idea, especially since Mother doesn't want any of those taxpayers setting a foot on the Malibu."

     Joseph grimaced. "Even so," he said, "I wonder if it wouldn't be just as well to take the losses, considering . . ."

     "That's what we have been doing, Joseph," Thad said, "until they killed two good men. The other thing we can do is arm every one of us—all the ranch hands, the servants, the orchard men. Or we can bring in men who already know how to use guns. Pablo has been a soldier for the past four years. He has the training . . . why not put it to good use to protect the ranch?"

     "We're talking about hired guns, Thad," Joseph said with a sigh, knowing he had lost. "Do you think you and Willa can control them?"

     Thad smiled somewhat condescendingly to Joseph, as if the older man were timid. "I think so," he said. "When you meet Pablo again, I think you will feel altogether better about it."

     "You know him that well? He's been gone for quite a long time, Thad . . . men change . . ." He was careful to say "men," careful not to offend Thad.

     "He hasn't changed," Thad said with certainty. "I've kept in touch."

     Joseph started rummaging in the drawer of his desk. While fumbling, he managed to ask "How did that happen? I mean, how did you two fellows get together?" He might have been inquiring about a sporting event.

     "We met a couple of times in San Diego."

     "He crossed the border so easily?" Joseph asked over the jumbling noises he made in his awkward efforts to find an ashtray.

     "He was working for the president . . . Diaz . . . he had something to do with the police, so he could come and go as he pleased."

     "That was before Diaz left, I suppose?" Joseph asked idly.

     "That's right. Before."

     "So Pablo had to clear out, too? Is that right?"

     Joseph's casual questions had thrown him off guard; now his face became set. "I suppose," he answered. "I don't think politics makes much difference to Pablo. I think he only wants to be a good soldier—and he is that."

     Joseph smiled, to take the edge off what he was about to say. "I wonder—can a man be a good soldier if he doesn't believe in his cause? Old Ignacio told me, once, that he did not like Diaz, that Diaz was not good for the peasants—Ignacio's people. That was why he did not want to see Pablo. Did you know that?"

     He could see the anger rising in Thad, and for a moment he feared he had gone too far.

     "If you had seen Ignacio's face blown away," Thad said, "if you had seen Mother's dress splattered with his blood . . ."

     Joseph put his arm around Thad's shoulders, then, and pulled him to him in a hug. "I know, son. I can imagine," he said. "I only hope that Pablo and his
vaqueros
can prevent another scene like that. You will tell him, won't you—prevention is what is necessary, protection."

Since Ignacio's death, Willa had been out of my reach. It was as if she were tightly coiled. I feared that the slightest disturbance could make her snap, could send her flying apart. She spoke in short volleys to give commands or ask questions. She had the same, frozen look on her face all day long, and there were times when I wondered if she had turned herself into something mechanical. None of us, not even Kit, seemed to know how to talk to her. We skirted any issue we thought might make her even tighter. We did not speak of Francisco or of Ignacio.

     Willa had not cried and, so far as I could tell, anger was all she felt. The tension was building in us all, it was becoming oppressive.

     In the midst of this, Philip Bourke appeared—without notice or invitation.

     "You said
any time
," he said pleasantly to Willa, with that half-smile that might have been mocking. I wondered if he knew all that had happened since the day of the tea dance.

     "I heard about the trouble," he said, answering my question. "Bad stuff, very bad." Then he asked. "What are you going to do about it?"

     Her eyes were flashing, and for a moment I thought she might strike him.

     I tried to intervene. "Mr. Bourke," I began . . .

     "Be quiet, Lena," Willa snapped, so rudely that I would have been hurt, had I not been so frightened.

     All the while, Philip Bourke was standing in the entrance to the parlor, his hat in his hand. Now he tossed it carelessly onto a settee, and walked inside. "Miss Lena," he said, "I wonder if I might trouble you for a glass of water? It's been a long, dry ride."

     I understood that he was asking me to leave, but I stayed outside in the hall to listen.

     "Do you think you are responsible for their deaths—the two men who worked for you?" he asked bluntly.

     "Yes," Willa blurted, all impatience and anger mixed, "of course I'm responsible, who else? I gave the orders . . . I
am
responsible."

     "All right, good," he said, as calm as she was riled, "I'm glad you've got that straight, at least."

     I could not see Willa but I heard the sounds she made—words, jumbled, as if trying to form thoughts. Philip Bourke's calm seemed to confuse her, but to release something, at the same time. He didn't push her, though, but just waited for the words to get in order. At last she said, "I presume you didn't come for a social outing because as you may have noticed, I'm in no mood to be pleasant."

     I went quickly for the water, and when I returned I paused again before entering, hearing Philip say, "A man named Rodriguez was found over by Calabasas—his throat slit. And two others, the same night—same style of knife work. Very fancy. The rumor is they were part of a gang that stole just about anything they could get their hands on. I wondered if they might be your rustlers."

     I entered the room in time to see Willa's face go cold.

     "
My
rustlers?" she said in a way that could make water freeze. "What do you mean,
my
rustlers?"

     "I mean the men who have been cleaning out your livestock."

     "How would I know? What are you trying to say?" She kept asking questions in a belligerent way. Though it was making me uncomfortable, it didn't seem to faze Philip.

     "I thought you might have gotten a look at the men—you were pretty close, after all. I thought you might have recognized one of them. . ."

     "I don't quite know where you get your information, and it is beyond me that you should think I socialize with cattle thieves."

     He smiled. "You socialize with me, so I figured you weren't too particular."

     To my absolute amazement, she laughed. Willa actually laughed. I had expected her to explode, I thought the anger she was holding in would spill out, but instead, she laughed.

     Just as suddenly she was serious again, but it was a more peaceful kind of seriousness. "I was riding next to Ignacio when he was shot," she began, "it was . . . it was the worst . . . I couldn't. . ."

     "Yes, of course you couldn't," Philip said in the kindest possible way.