Paxton and the Lone Star (28 page)

Servants appeared to lead the horses away. Another, an old lady, emerged from the
hacienda
and opened the grill. Afoot, Ramez proved to be several inches shorter than True, a difference for which he compensated by strutting like a boy prince as he took Elizabeth's arm and led the way up the steps. “At the risk of being brash, may I inquire your name, señorita?” he asked.

“Elizabeth Michaelson,” Elizabeth answered, sensing True move closer to her.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful lady. You must be my guest here sometime soon. We are relatively new to these parts, and my father loves to entertain. Your presence would brighten our house, and help us forget our isolation.” He tossed his cloak to a servant and beamed at Elizabeth. “May I assist you with your wrap?”

True snorted in disgust. Jones nudged him with an elbow. Elizabeth wondered if True really thought she was so stupid that she didn't see through Ramez, especially after his exhibition in the street the night before, and smiled reassuringly at him when Ramez was behind her and couldn't see her face. Somewhere off to their left, what sounded like a sword fight was in progress, and the clash of steel against steel rang through the sparsely appointed foyer. “My father at exercise,” Ramez explained as he waited for the men to take off their coats and hang them on the rack. “If you'll come with me, then. I'm sure he won't mind being interrupted.”

The rooms were spacious and appointed with dark furniture that contrasted sharply with the thick wool rugs that had been spread for the winter across the cold tile flooring. Sunlight poured through windows with real glass, more glass than the settlers had seen in one place since they had embarked on the riverboat that took them down the Mississippi. Servants, mostly young girls, could be seen peeking around doorways and bustling from one room to another. Greasewood candelabras bristling with candles that filled the air with the sweet smell of beeswax hung from the ceilings. Elizabeth caught a glimpse of the central courtyard and thought to herself that it must be beautiful in the summer.

The sound of swordplay increased. Ramez stopped in what was apparently a gaming room, the walls of which were hung with paintings of battle scenes. “My father is the artist,” he said, gesturing with a sweep of his arm. “He's proficient at everything he does.”

Elizabeth noticed a hint of bitterness in Ramez's voice, and in that brief moment discovered a degree of kinship with him, for she too had lived in a strong father's shadow, and failed. “O'Shannon is hardly a name I expected to find in Mexico,” she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

“My father is Irish,” Ramez said. “My mother was Castillian Spanish, not at all like the
mestizo
and
negrito
mixed blood we see around here. Father is a soldier. He has plied his trade in France with Napoleon and in Greece killing Turks. He fought with Bolivar in Venezuela and against the English in Ireland. Now he is here in Mexico, and I—” He could not hide his dislike for the situation in which he found himself, “—am with him.” A particularly loud clatter of swords, followed by a string of badly pronounced Spanish, interrupted him. “He is in there if you are ready.”

The ballroom they entered was by far the most impressive room they had seen so far. It ran the full length of one side of the
hacienda.
Windows bordered with tiny stained-glass designs and covered with intricate wrought ironwork looked out into the courtyard. Three crystal teardrop chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Massive oak tables and chairs had been shoved back against the walls, leaving the brown, tan, and cream mosaic tile floor clear. Of the three men in the room, two were dusky, short, and obviously Mexican. The third, Luther O'Shannon, was trim and light-complected with a shock of salt and pepper hair that was brushed straight back from his forehead and hung down to his shoulders. A sheen of sweat gleamed on his tight, bunched muscles as he danced away from one blade and parried another slash that, if not half-heartedly delivered, might have done him injury. “Come, Emiliano!” he roared in Spanish. “You aren't trying. And you, Sancho! I'm counting on you. What man learns unless he is pressed to the limit? Come, the first man to draw my blood may have my saddle. The silver one.”

The smaller man, Emiliano, danced to one side as O'Shannon beat back a laborious attack by Sancho, and then closed from the side. At the last second, O'Shannon, catching him out of the corner of his eye, twisted and kicked the legs out from under the Mexican. Emiliano tumbled to the floor and rolled quickly out of the way of his employer's saber. At the same time, O'Shannon stepped into Sancho's renewed attack and, swinging backhanded from the side, slashed across and upward and sent Sancho's weapon flying across the room. So ferocious was the attack that Sancho was thrown off balance and tripped over his own feet. With a roar of laughter, O'Shannon leaped toward him and stabbed with the saber. Sancho yelped with fear and, the blade barely pricking his chest, fell backward and sat heavily, legs splayed and dignity shattered.

O'Shannon turned in disdain from his fallen opponents and, fully aware of his visitors and the effect his swordplay had had on them, accepted a wet towel and a tankard of wine from a girl who appeared through an archway. “The saber is a slashing weapon,” he said, toasting himself. “It is difficult to master, but in capable hands there is no more lethal weapon for hand-to-hand fighting.”

His gaze swept across the men, lingered on Elizabeth as he drank from the tankard. “I am Luther O'Shannon. You have met my son, I see. And across the room—” He gestured to Lucita, who was half hidden in a large, soft armchair. “—is my wife, Lucita. She is angry with me and pouts to demonstrate her disapproval.”

He did not motion for them to sit, so the five visitors remained standing, awkwardly bunched together. “We don't know what General Cos has told you,” Jones began, breaking the silence, “but I might as well go on and explain my part in this. My name is Jones. Señor Medina hired me to bring these here settlers to him, so here I am.”

“And no Medina,” O'Shannon said, with a little cluck of dismay. “Are any of you adept with a saber? I am a willing student. You there.” He pointed his tankard at True. “Your name.”

“True Paxton,” True answered, stepping forward.

“True. An interesting name at that. Well, now, True Paxton, you have the look of a capable man. I can read good breeding in your eyes. Can you handle a saber with any skill?”

“I doubt it. The blade's too long to suit me.”

“An interesting observation,” O'Shannon remarked. “You'll permit me?” He raised his saber and lifted the flap of True's coat. “Then what do you prefer? A pistol? Ah! The knife.” His eyebrows rose. “Although it is a little long for a knife. A bayonet perhaps?”

True brushed the tip of the sword away. “We call it an Arkansas Toothpick, where I come from. Heavier than the average knife, shorter than your saber.” His eyes bore into O'Shannon's. “It's difficult to master, but in capable hands there is no more lethal weapon for hand-to-hand fighting.”

O'Shannon studied True for any trace of derision, then finally nodded. Behind him, set on winning a silver saddle, Emiliano had risen from the floor and was creeping up behind his employer. O'Shannon was no fool, though. He had spent too much time at sabers and knew his fellow man too well. Reading precisely what was happening in True's eyes and Elizabeth's gasp, he whirled at the last second. The blades met in a singing of steel and a raw metallic rasp, and the basket hilts collided as the two men closed. Before Emiliano knew what had happened, O'Shannon had pushed him backward and sliced open his thigh. The Mexican groaned and dropped his saber to clasp his leg as blood began to well from the cut.

“Greed, Emiliano,” O'Shannon said in Spanish. “Greed is your undoing.” He tossed his saber to Sancho and clapped his hands twice. Immediately, Sancho rushed to help his companion from the room.

“Well, then,” the Irishman said, reverting to English and ignoring the servant girl who hurried to wipe away the blossoms of blood staining the floor. “I suppose that is the end of my exercise for the day. Unfortunate, but it can't be helped.” He strolled across the floor to the table by his wife's chair and refilled his tankard from a pitcher. “So. Why have you come to me? Why have you come to my land?”

“Because we own part of it,” Elizabeth said before any of the men could speak.

O'Shannon looked over his shoulder in mock surprise. “What? The woman speaks? You are beautiful, my dear, but is this not men's business?”

Elizabeth's face reddened but she held her ground. “My father bought the land, but he is now dead, as is my mother. My sister and I are their heirs, so it is my business. No man need speak for me concerning land that I own.”

“Land that you own, eh?” O'Shannon chuckled. Lucita smiled up at him. “Did you hear that, my dear? Land that they own.” A puzzled look crossed his face. He set down the tankard and leaned back against the table. “You must pardon me, my dear. All of you, of course. But I know nothing of land that you own.”

“We purchased grants of land,” Scott Campbell said, his voice hollow with anticipation. “We paid for them with hard money. Eight thousand hectares between us.”

“And we have deeds to the property and a map of the ranch showing which sections are ours,” Kemper added.

“Really?” O'Shannon asked. He ambled across the open floor toward the settlers. “I trust you have them with you. May I see them?”

Jones pulled a large package out from under his coat. “These are all of 'em,” he said, handing them to O'Shannon. “I checked 'em myself.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” O'Shannon took the packet, broke it open, and walked back to the fireplace and perused them one by one.

The settlers waited. Ramez perched on one of the table tops. Lucita rose and brought him a glass of wine. Her eyes never left Elizabeth, whom she studied as if inspecting a rival.

“As you can see,” Kemper said, filling the awkward silence, “everything is perfectly legal. All notarized by the local authorities as well as those in Mexico City.”

“I see. Yes, I see,” O'Shannon answered at last. “There is, however, a problem.” His smile was diabolical. “The authorities whose signatures I read here are, how shall I put it, no longer authorities. And this transaction was between you and Medina, who no longer owns this ranch. I do. These grants—” He tossed them into the fireplace. “—are useless.”

“No!” Elizabeth exclaimed, rushing across the room toward the fireplace.

True was a step ahead of her and restrained her from reaching into the flames. Already, the papers had caught fire and were burning fiercely.

“You had no right!” Kemper shouted, his face pale as a sheet.

“It isn't a question of right,” O'Shannon sneered. “They were valueless. Mere scratchings on paper. Nowhere was the name O'Shannon mentioned.”

Campbell stepped forward, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists. “We assumed you were a gentleman,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

“Assume what you will as long as you do not take me for a fool.”

Kemper was trembling with rage, and tried to pull the pistol he carried. Jones quickly stepped behind him and grabbed him by the elbows. “We paid!” Kemper screamed, straining against Jones. “We paid, damn you to hell!”

O'Shannon appeared unperturbed. “You paid Medina,” he said with a shrug. “Find Medina. Your quarrel is with him, not with me.”

“Our quarrel
is
with you,” Campbell insisted. “The land was bought and paid for almost five months ago. It was ours before you took it over. You are, in effect, taking—stealing—something you didn't own in the first place.”

Not many men had called O'Shannon a thief and gotten away with it. The Irishman's features grew taut with controlled fury. “What is your name?” he asked, his voice an icy chill.

“Campbell. Scott Campbell.”

“And you are a lawyer, Mr. Campbell? One versed in Mexican law?”

Campbell's mouth opened, then closed. “No,” he finally admitted.

“Then I suggest,” O'Shannon went on, “that you are ignorant of the facts, and haven't a leg to stand on. The land is mine. I say so, and can prove it in any Mexican court if you should have the temerity to challenge me. The only way you will get so much as one square yard of my land—” His smiled was a thin, white line. “—is to pay me for it.”

“But we can't,” Elizabeth whispered, staring at the ashes of a dream. “We have so little left. Medina took it all.”

O'Shannon's outburst had ended and he had regained his composure. “Then, my dear, you and your friends have my sympathy. But not my land. There is nothing I can do for you.”

“They could appeal to Santa Anna's court,” Jones broke in from across the room. “He might help.”

“An idle threat, Mr. Jones. One that you of all people should know better than to make.” O'Shannon shrugged eloquently. “But by all means, feel free to try. I will be in Mexico City in a couple of months myself. If they wish, I will be most pleased to arrange an audience for them. A piece of advice, though. Our president has no love for those who supported Bustamente. I would not mention Medina's name if I were you.” He turned to the table and refilled his tankard. “This isn't a bad wine. Will you join me?”

They stared at him, struck speechless by the casual way this man had devastated them, had made their hardships and suffering meaningless.

“No? Then I must bid you good day. I have a great deal to accomplish today, and am already late.” His brows furrowed. “Ah, I can see you blame me. But I must insist you consider your request from my point of view. Surely you do not expect me simply to present you with a significant portion of my land just because Cirilio Medina robbed you.” O'Shannon looked into each of their faces, read the emptiness there. “I will tell you what I will do, though. Pay me what you paid Medina, and the land is yours. It's good land, too. Many springs, good grass …”