Chapter 6: Old Man Loomis
Cordel Loomis sat in his reddish-brown armchair made of tufted cordovan smoking
a dark-brown panatella, his booted feet propped up on a matching ottoman.
He was a stout-looking man with thick bushy eyebrows and snow white hair that
hung to the base of his neck. His ancient, clean-shaven face had a deep mahogany
tan that had become permanent after three score years spent in the out of doors
in all kinds of weather. Deep lines were etched into the aging flesh like
ravines sloping off a snow-capped mountainside. Two steely-gray eyes glared out
over prominent cheeks and thick jaw bones that gave the face the look of
something built to take punishment, a face naturally fixed in a hard scowl that
was an intimidation to most everyone.
The lacy-blue smoke of his cigar wafted through the large study to double-wide
doors in the four foot thick adobe walls. Outside a hot desert of sand and
cactus stretched endlessly into the distance where jagged-toothed peaks, capped
with snow -- that would last far into summer -- rimmed the horizon.
Just above the doorway of the study was a deer's head with an eighteen point
rack. A panther snarled on the wall behind the large, rosewood desk. He had
killed it just as it had been about to leap from a boulder onto the buck. And
instantly, in a remarkable feat of shooting, he had killed the buck, too, before
it could bound away.
Some stock reports lay in his lap and he was busy making notations in the
margins with a flat, yellow pencil when he heard the sound of hooves
approaching.
He lay the reports aside and went to the double-wide doors, stepping out onto a
verandah.
Coming in from the east on her morning ride was his daughter-in-law, Mona
Clevemont-Loomis, the dark-haired wife of his only son, Patrick. Three Mexican
vaqueros were riding guard with her. Not only were they excellent cowhands but
also among the best of his pistoleros, especially the youngest, nicknamed Chili,
who was reputed to have 'killed his man'. His real name was Jose Aguilar. The
unofficial leader of the three was Jorge Mendoza, a heavy set man with a thick
mustache and potbelly who wore heavy silver rings and necklaces. The other man
was called Luis Amundo, a thin man who carried a razor-sharp bowie knife in his
boot and knew how to use it.
All of the men were heavily armed with six-shooters and rifles with a crisscross
of bandoleers over their chests. Dressed similarly they all wore short chaquetas
and leggins with silver conchos and, around their waists, belts with large
silver buckles.
From the shade of the verandah, Loomis watched the Mexicans dismount and help
the senora from her horse, not that she needed their help. She was an expert
rider, coming from a grand southern family were equestrianism was an art.
Being young and beautiful had its perks, Loomis mused wryly. The Mexicans were
like eager children, each one trying to outdo the other to be rewarded with one
of her smiles which she parceled out among them with regal grace. When she
caught sight of Loomis, she held the tip of her thumb and forefinger together
and brought them to her lips. Loomis nodded curtly. They had established a
ritual of taking coffee and cakes together in the inner courtyard after her
morning rides, a little over a month now since she and Patrick had arrived from
back east where they had married two years previously.
She was wearing a tan riding outfit with a narrow-brimmed, flat-topped hat and a
black scarf around her neck. Her thick, black hair hung halfway down her back.
Loomis watched her until she reached the front door to his left and entered.
Immediately, he turned his attention back to the Mexicans and called out.
"Jorge, un momento."
"Si, patron," Jorge answered and tossed the reins of his horse to Luis who with
the youthful Chili, moved the horses into the corral next to the barn. Loomis
turned and went back into the study. Behind him he could hear the chinking sound
of Jorge's jingle bobs as he stepped onto the tiled walk of the verandah and
entered the study.
"Si, patron?" Jorge said when he was inside, sombrero in hand. The dust of the
desert covered his sloping shoulders.
Loomis didn't answer right away but went to a side table and filled two crystal
jiggers with whiskey from a decanter and handed one to the Mexican. He sat down
behind his desk while Jorge took a seat in the armchair facing, hanging his
sombrero on one knee and taking in half the whiskey with a gulp. Loomis ignored
his for the moment, drawing deeply on his cigar and exhaling a cloud of blue
smoke.
"Did you stop by the Preston place like I asked you?" Loomis finally asked.
"Si, patron. I told them you wanted their land. That no one had to get hurt if
they just fill the papers out no causing trouble."
"You talked to Preston personally?"
"Si, patron."
"What did he say?"
Jorge hesitated, looked down at his knees then back up.
"You not going to like this."
"What'id the son-of-a-bitch say?" Loomis asked, his voice rising slightly, his
jaw muscles flexing.
"He say he no can give land to you; that he already sell eet."
"Sold it! Who the hell to?"
"La Senora Holbarth."
"Susan Holbarth?" Loomis had a puzzled, surprised look on his leathery face.
"That fucking bitch! What's she up to?"
Jorge shrugged. "I cannot say, patron, but eet ees strange. Preston he say to me
she give him only fifty dolares for the place, but that she tell him that ees
fifty more dolares than you give; so he sell her eet."
A sudden look of comprehension crossed Loomis' face. He sucked heavily on his
teeth and settled back in his chair, examining the gray ash at the end of his
cigar thoughtfully for a moment.
"The little widow bitch is clever," he said finally.
"How so, patron?" Jorge asked. "Eet make no sense."
"Ah, but it does. My guess is she is buying up all the homesteads that have
received their titles for a twentieth of what they're worth to keep me from
taking them. Afterwards she will control one of the most fertile valleys around.
And getting it for a price that is practically robbery. She knows that as long
as I take the land for nothing, the homesteaders will sell to her -- better a
little money than nothing but a bullet or a boot in the ass from me."
"What will you do, patron?"
"There's only one thing I can do."
Loomis smiled, but it was more like a snarl.
He stood up and ground his cigar out in a silver ashtray.
"Manana we pay the Widow a visit."
* * *
Loomis stepped through the open patio door into the inner courtyard. Mona Loomis
was waiting for him at a round, glass-topped table surrounded by a colorful
variety of red, blue, yellow and gold flowers set in large, earthen vases on the
tiled yard. Above, through a lattice work, climbing vines spread their leafy
tendrils providing shade from the harsh glare of the sun fixed overhead above
white, fluffy clouds drifting aimlessly in a sea of blue.
She smiled as he took a seat across from her and poured coffee from a silver pot
into his cup. Loomis noted that she had taken off her riding jacket and changed
into a fresh, white blouse but still wore the same brown skirt. He dipped out
two spoonfuls of sugar from a glazed bowl and poured some cream from a small jug
when she was through.
"Did you ride far today?" Loomis asked, as he settled back in his chair,
crossing his legs.
"Out to the bend in Clear Creek," she answered. "That's where Patrick was riding
circle today. He said that it was a good place to hold them for branding."
Loomis smiled. Mona was new to the west and its ways, but she was smart and
learned quickly. Patrick had made a good choice selecting her for his wife.
"Yes," Loomis said. "With water on three sides you only have to deploy a few
hands on the open end to keep the cattle from straying. Leaves you more men for
rounding up."
"Aw, well, see there," she said playfully, "I'm learning something new everyday,
am I not?"
"Yes, indeed," Loomis grinned.
He removed a cloth cover from a basket of ginger snaps and took one. They were
still warm from the oven.
"I can't get over the beauty and the vastness of this land," she said after a
moment.
Loomis narrowed his eyes and clenched his hand tightly, but his face remained
impassive. "Yes, it's all of that, but you can't let it fool you. It's a
treacherous place, indifferent and unforgiving of mistakes. And if the desert
wasn't bad enough there's the Apache. Goddamned heathens! I have fought them for
forty years to get what I've got and lost many good men and friends in the
process."
Loomis' voice dropped as he lowered his head slightly. "Even my wife and two
sons, Patrick's older brothers. All killed by those bastards!"
"Yes," Mona said softly, "Patrick told me about it." She recalled the horror and
outrage she had felt when Patrick had confided to her what the savages had done
when he was still just a small child. How a band of them had ridden into their
homestead, whooping and yelling, while the men were out riding circle. How his
mother had hidden him in the fireplace. How he had heard the screams of his
mother as the Indians raped and tortured her, skinning her alive, dragging her
body and his two brothers behind their horses through cactus beds until they
were ripped to pieces.
"They usually take women and children captive," Loomis said, "but the Apache
hated us for taking their hunting grounds from them, so they killed everyone
hoping to make my father give up. But he didn't; and they only increased my
desire to stay and fight them. And I'll kill every damn last one of them before
I'm through! They'll never defeat me!"
Loomis lapsed into a momentary silence before continuing.
"It's a dangerous land; that's why I have Jorge, Luis and Chili go with you on
your daily rides. The Apaches aren't fools. If they see a group of well armed,
experienced men, they aren't likely to attack, not if they think they might
suffer casualties. They're nomads, scavengers; they live by thievery. They'll
avoid all conflict unless they have the distinct advantage. Ten Apaches won't
attack one well-armed man if they know he is aware of his surroundings and is
ready to defend himself and his property to the death."
"But surely there's little danger of attack out on the open plains where one can
see for miles --".
"Not true," Loomis cut in harshly, then softened his tone. "Although they do
usually hide out in canyons and rough country. And you're always sure to find
them on mountain tops were they can keep a sharp eye out on the surrounding
plains and any unsuspecting travelers that happen by. But don't be fooled;
they're masters at concealment; you can be standing ten feet from one of them on
flat, open ground and not see him. They can bury themselves in the sand like a
rodent in a matter of seconds and grab you by the ankle as you pass. They can
conceal themselves behind a bush no more than a foot tall and you'll never know
it until you feel their razor-sharp knife across your throat. You can never
relax your guard in the desert if you value your life. And mark my words . . .
when you see no signs of Apaches that's when you can be damn sure they're
around."
Mona was silent with a thoughtful look on her face and seemed to be taking in
what he was saying, but he knew it wasn't likely. To understand the Apache and
the desert, one had to experience both first hand over a period of many years.
Easterners who have been raised in a sheltered environment found it hard to
grasp the harsh realities of life in the West. Experience, he knew, was the only
teacher -- and a hard one.
The conversation shifted to lighter matters by degrees: how Mona was managing
with the servants; a baile Mona was orchestrating for the following month in
which everyone of note would attend from miles around; a shopping trip to San
Fransico planned for the following year . . . and on and on. To all of which
Loomis listened politely with half an ear. Until she picked up a copy of the Red
Rock Lantern and tapped at it with a long, glazed fingernail.
"This is really outrageous," she fumed.
She pointed out an article on the third page entitled "Are You One of the
Chosen?" and laid it before Loomis.
"It seems that Miss Morgan thinks that I'm a 'pretentious snob' -- I use her
words -- because I invite only a select sort of people to my social gatherings."
There was a time in his past, when he had been a struggling cowboy, that Loomis
would have agreed with Faye Morgan and would have said so with a few well-chosen
coarse epithets. But now the social atmosphere he moved in was stylish and full
of superficial posturing. In his struggle for dominion, over the years, he had
been forced to concede that such posturing was necessary when money and power
became ends in themselves. One's acquaintances and friends, on the high end,
eventually became one's enemies, greedy hypocrites hiding their true ambitions
-- as he hid his -- in a social charade -- sincerity something cultivated with
deceit. And one found that he was forced to play the game -- no matter how
tiresome and silly, or be crushed. For although he was powerful there were still
men more powerful than he, and if he wanted to rise above them -- which he
surely intended to do -- he could not afford to reveal his hand.
He realized that his daughter-in-law was indeed a pretentious snob, but as his
daughter-in-law she had become an important player in his legacy of power, and
he couldn't afford to alienate her. The children she and his son would give
birth to would create his dynasty, a dynasty that would never die and would keep
the name of its founder alive forever. It was the closest to immortality a man
could get.
It was ironic, he thought. He had spent his whole life achieving power only to
find out that in order to hang on to it he had to concede it to others.
He looked up from the paper and studied her face with eyes as keen as any
Apache's from his mountain top, and he found himself wondering how it was that
his son Patrick had not gotten her pregnant after two years of marriage. They
surely had to know, he reasoned, that he hadn't spent forty years building up
his empire just to give it back to a bunch of greasers and blanket Indians. He
made a mental note to bring the subject up the next time he saw Patrick. He
wasn't getting any younger, and he damn sure wanted to see grand kids on the
Rocking L before he cashed in his chips.
"I'll have Marshal Tibbs speak to her," Loomis said.
"That woman has to be taught her place," Mona said, with a sugary-sweet smile.
She leaned over to pour him another cup of coffee, and her ample breasts moved
provocatively beneath the soft fabric of her blouse. Cordel Loomis felt his cock
becoming stiff.
