The Texan's Bride (26 page)

With a sniff, the clerk turned away to do his bidding. Branch lifted a pencil from the counter and began tapping it impatiently. This was the fourth county land office he’d visited in the last week, and he was getting pretty damn tired of government flunkies.

I have to gather all the information I can about MB&T Land Company
, he told himself. He’d wasted too much time cozying up to the Regulators and the Moderators without learning a thing. He’d been so sure that if he wormed his way into their confidences, he’d find his man. He’d imagined that with a little footwork, he could locate the farm where Rob spent his last days and learn just what had happened the day he died. But he’d been wrong.

Branch hated to be wrong.

But this MB&T business felt right. He was close this time, he could feel it. And the sooner he ran his prey to ground, the sooner he could go home to Riverrun. The pencil slipped from his hand as the vision of an auburn haired spitfire floated in his mind. Tomorrow was San Jacinto Day, and he’d be riding out to Gallagher’s, perhaps for the last time.

The clerk dumped an armful of files before him, shaking Branch from his reverie. He stared at the piles of paper.
It has to be here
, he thought. He damn well knew it.

There were two ways a man could use counterfeit land scrip. He could sell it to gullible immigrants, or he could use it to claim land himself. The volume of folks moving into Texas made the first method of disposing of phony scrip easier to accomplish, but it also was the most risky, because the forger would be forced either to meet his victim directly or allow others into his scheme. While Rob’s letters to his father mentioned a ring of counterfeiters, Branch had yet to uncover any evidence that more than a single man, or a single land company—the MB&T—was involved.

That led him to believe the second method of scrip disposal, purchase of the land itself, might just be the one utilized. But for all the offices he’d visited, Branch had yet to figure out just what it was he looked for. He had a gut feeling that he was on the right trail, though, and that instinct had seldom let him down before.

He ran his finger along the stiff edge of the top file and murmured, “Maybe today.” If he had any luck at all, maybe this time he’d discover the clue that would put it all together. He was beginning to think he was needing to put some distance between him and a certain innkeeper.

“I’ll need the county map also,” he said to the clerk as he opened the first folder in the stack, the one entitled donation grants. Donation grants and bounty grants were issued to individuals for service during the Texas Revolution. He skimmed the certificates until one particular name caught his eye, and an old hurt bubbled up inside him. The paper read in part: “Known to all men that James Bowie Having Fallen in the Alamo 6th March 1836 is entitled to Six Hundred and Forty Acres of Donation Land.”

Damn, but Jim had been a good man, a good friend
, Branch thought, shaking his head. It’s good to know that a relative got some good out of his sacrifice—a fine section of die East Texas Redlands—but this business made for a heavy heart. Sifting through the names of those who fought in the battles of the Revolution revived the faded nightmare in his memories.

He slammed the file shut, blowing dust up from the counter. The government man sneezed. Branch doubted he’d find his answers among the donation grants or the bounty grants. The muster rolls from the Army of the Republic of Texas were too easy to check—any criminal with any sense wouldn’t risk counterfeiting grants. “I’d bet my own donation grant on that,” he muttered.

Besides, the MB&T dealt mostly in sales scrip—paper sold to anyone with the purchase price. Headrights, also, weren’t so easy to check. Every man who moved to Texas had qualified for a headright up until recently. The forger would have pretty pickings with those. The answer had to be in either the headright certificates or sales scrip filed in the counties around Nacogdoches, and in the last week Branch had checked most of them.

He tossed aside the donation grant file and opened the headright, second-class, folder. He asked the clerk, “Now, what are the dates again on what type of classification a man receives for his headright?”

The clerk answered with a whine in his voice. “First class arrived in Texas prior to March second, 1836. Married men received one league and one labor of land, while single men received one-third league.”

Branch interrupted. “Just the dates. I know how much land a man’s entitled to.”

The clerk tightened his lips into a thin line. “Second class rights are issued to those who arrived between March second, 1836, and October first, 1837. Third is after October first, 1837, to January first, 1840. Fourth is from January first, 1840, to January first of this year.”

An idea niggled in Branch’s mind. Something about the dates…
what was it
? He looked more closely at the map. Most of the claims were in leagues and labors. First-class headrights. Early settlers.

Branch tapped the pencil rhythmically.
Dammit, think
. He’d studied a passel of county maps in the last couple of weeks. What was it about them that bothered him? He tried to recall the details of each map.

Very little unappropriated land remained in any of the counties he’d checked; therefore, most of the land was illustrated in blocks. Claimed labors and leagues took up major portions of the counties. Branch stared at the map before him and concentrated.

Rob was investigating scrip when he died. Scrip was usually sold in sections, 640 acres, or even half sections. Branch noted the names of men who filed on less than a league of land, trying to draw a connection between them.

He frowned. This was San Augustine County. He knew this county—he’d hunted the land for the Gallaghers. The prime land in this county had been claimed in 640-acre sections, not leagues of 4,428 acres. That made no sense. Why wouldn’t the earliest settlers have claimed the best land?

The answer hit him like a wild mustang’s kick. Indians. Chief Bowles’s Cherokees. Katie’s Shaddoe Dancer. Happy horse dung, the dates! Branch sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands, straining to put the information together.

July 1839—the Cherokee War. The phony land scrip that had brought his brother to East Texas began to surface in ‘42 or ‘43. Who had settled the Indian land? Was that what this was all about, ownership of the prime, eastern Texas land from which the Indians had been driven? Branch looked up at the clerk. “How was the Cherokee land appropriated?”

The little man looked offended. “Why, the same method as any land, of course. Sam Houston made sure of it. He pushed a law through Congress that insured the land was divided into sections and sold. He wanted all the proceeds to go to the Republic, not land-grabbers.”

“Who bought it and how?” He asked the question, but he already knew the answer. He’d bet half of Riverrun that the killer owned that land, and that he’d claimed it using counterfeit scrip.

“Listen, Deputy, I don’t mind cooperating with the law, but your attitude …”

“Answer me!” Branch snapped, leaning forward with his hands planted firmly on the counter, glaring at the little man.

“I’ll have to check.” The clerk glanced nervously at the map, then fingered through the files.

“Why have I been so blind?” Branch muttered. It made perfect sense. The man he searched for must have some connection to the MB&T, and Rob must have found it. The Cherokee land was prime property, extremely valuable, and for someone, worth killing for.

“Here’s the file, Deputy,” the clerk said, handing him a folder.

Branch opened it and began to read. Most of the land had been claimed with sales scrip—scrip issued by the Matagorda Bay and Texas Land Company. Now he needed to check the certificates. They would confirm the name.

He thumbed through the papers, matching land sections with scrip certificates, and his blood chilled like the Brazos River in January. Most of the certificates were filed by the same man.

John Patrick Gallagher.

CHAPTER 14

SAN JACINTO DAY DAWNED bright and clear with a warm April breeze stirring through the trees. In Gallagher’s yard, gingham cloths covered tables ready to be laden with food. Iron stakes rose from sand-filled horseshoe pits, and along the road, red flags flapped from tree branches, marking the start and finish lines for the horse races planned for that afternoon. Up at the inn, the last of the window curtains had been hung, the furniture dusted, and everything made clean and gleaming in anticipation of the formal reopening of Gallagher’s Tavern and Travelers Inn.

Katie, Martha, and the Paynes had been up before the sun seeing to the final preparations for the party. Already the aroma of slow-cooking beef rose from the barbecue pit, leading Andrew to complain of a rumbling stomach as Katie and Martha prepared breakfast.

“Hush your mouth, boy,” Martha said, pulling a tray of biscuits from the oven. “You’re not about to starve. I watched you snatch four molasses cookies not twenty minutes ago, so I’m certain you can wait another five minutes for Miz Katie to get the eggs scrambled.”

Katie laughed, saying, “Go tell your father breakfast is ready, please, Andrew. And make sure you wash up before you come back.”

“Yes’m, Miz Katie,” the boy said, swiping a hot biscuit from Martha’s tray and dodging a wrap on his knuckles before dashing from the kitchen.

“Rowdy ought to take a belt to that boy of his,” Martha fussed. “He’s getting more ornery every day.”

“He reminds me of Daniel,” Katie said. “I’m happy to have him around for nothing more than that.” Dishing the on-the-runny-side scrambled eggs from her skillet into a wooden bowl, she asked, “Martha, were there any strawberries left over from the pies? I’ve a mind for fruit with my breakfast.”

Martha didn’t answer. Katie glanced over her shoulder. The landlady stared toward the door, grimacing with concern. Slowly, Katie turned around.

Branch stood in the doorway with thunderclouds on his brow. He hurled his words like hailstones. “Damn you, woman! Tell me
every single detail
of this scam you Gallaghers are running!”

“I beg your pardon?” Katie clipped her words.

“I should damned well hope so. I may be the world’s greatest fool, but I don’t believe you and your father are killers.” He stepped into the kitchen, the fire in his eyes scorching a path to Katie. “I do know that you are thieves. Thousands of acres, patented to John Patrick Gallagher. No wonder the old leprechaun didn’t want to take you with him. He needed someone to stay around and keep an eye on his land!”

Katie inhaled a deep breath and set the empty skillet on the table. Branch’s gaze never left her as he said to Martha through gritted teeth, “Please excuse us, Mrs. Craig.”

Her stare fastened on the pulse throbbing at his temple. “No, Martha. Stay where you are.” Katie had learned survival skills at a very young age. “Branch, I can see that you are somewhat upset. However”—she raised her voice to be heard over his guffaw—“however, you labor under a misconception.”

Sarcasm dripped from his words. “I labor from the labors of land you’ve stolen.”

Oh, that man
! She slammed the spoon against the tabletop. She had never stolen anything in her life—and neither had Da. Outrage at his false accusation starched her spine, but feeding the fury was her sense of guilt.

She hadn’t stolen that land, but what she had done was much worse.

Shame and anger forced bravado into her voice. “How dare you! I’ll have you know that the last person who accused me of theft found herself taking an unplanned swim in the Angelina. Of all the nerve!”

She put her hands on her hips and glared at him, fuming. “You slander my name, allowing me no chance to explain, and do it in front of a witness yet! Well, I’m of half a mind to show you the door for good.”

“You’re half a mind, all right,” he raged, advancing on her. “And if you don’t use that sassy mouth of yours to answer my question this minute, it’s gonna see the back of my hand.”

“You wouldn’t slap me.”

Branch’s jaw clenched. His words slithered across the room and curled around her neck. “Don’t count on it. You’ve got more nerve than a whore at a tent revival.”

His voice was deceptively mild when he spoke again. “You’re right, Katie, I’d never hit your face. But you can bet every acre of land in your precious Da’s name that I’d give you the spanking you deserve. Now start talking.”

“Oh, you… you…” she stuttered. She glanced around the room, searching for a weapon. The skillet. She stretched for the handle when her gaze snagged on the wooden bowl full of cooling eggs.

“Uh-oh,” Martha said. “Honey child, you’d best not.”

Branch’s glare promised certain retribution.

Katie didn’t care. Guilt was a living, breathing monster inside her. Anything would be better than telling him the truth.

Martha groaned as the gooey, yellow mess tumbled down upon Branch’s head.

The bowl clattered to the floor. He raised a hand and calmly brushed the egg from his hair and shoulders.

“I think I’ll go find Rowdy and Andrew and tell them breakfast will be a bit late,” Martha said, removing her apron and heading for the door. “I’ll make sure you two are not disturbed.”

Katie watched a slimy, yellow streak dribble slowly down Branch’s shirt.
Oh my, you’ve done it now, Katie girl
. She clasped her hands in front of her in a futile attempt to control the trembling. “You can’t leave me, Martha. He’ll hurt me, he’ll kill me.”

Martha twisted her lips in a frown, then asked, “You gonna kill her, Mr. Branch?”

His gaze locked on Katie, he gave a slow, negative shake of his head.

The older woman nodded once. “Very well. Sweetheart, I’m afraid that short of murder, you’ve got it coming to you. I’ll give you your privacy now.”

As her only defense exited the room, Katie faced the enormity of her mistake. He looked down at his shirt, grooming himself like a tawny panther with enormous paws, and she stood frozen in place like a frightened rabbit. With an almost casual air, he lifted his head and impaled her with glowing eyes. A feral grin spread across his face.