Spanish Blood - Softcover

One
 
rattlesnake eggs
Territory of New Mexico
 
 
The label on the package was stamped in ink, as if with an often-used woodcut daubed on a blotter. The postmark came from Santa Fe. The address, hand printed, was to Bartholomew Cedric Young, Tulane University, New Orleans, Louisiana.
Bart slid the small package across the saloon table to his friend, and glanced out through the beveled glass at a passerby on Bourbon Street.
"Rattlesnake eggs?" Randy Hendricks said. "What in the world?"
"I ordered them from a Santa Fe trading company. Those are registered diamondback eggs. Take a look."
Randy regarded the postmark, the address, the authentic ink stamp. It was just like Bart Young to raise venomous reptiles from eggs. "What are you gonna do with rattlesnakes?"
"Pull their fangs out, and you can have all kinds of fun with 'em. You know, leave 'em in peoples' beds and things like that. Mailboxes--whatever. Go on, take a look. But you've never seen rattlesnake eggs before."
Randy picked up the box and judged its weight. He donned a skeptical smirk, and opened the cardboard lid.
Even before his eyes could find the source, the noise burst from the package--a loud, aggressive rattling. Randy's knees banged against the bottom of the table, his warm beer sloshing from the mug. He felt his heart throb in his ears, and looked wild-eyed into the open box as he scrambled in his seat.
Where he expected to find a coiled snake, he saw instead a dismantled alarm clock with thin pieces of wood tied to where the alarm bells would ordinarily go, the tiny hammer still winding down, tapping against the wood with diamondback rapidity.
Across the table, Bart Young was almost choking on his own laughter, his head rolling all around on his shoulders, his eyes moist with gladness, his mouth wide and bellowing.
"Damn you, Bart!"
The prankster took an ink-stained woodcut from his pocket and tossed it on the table in front of Randy. "You can get 'em down at the jetty. The old man there will carve anything you want on 'em. As for the postmark--well, I just mailed the box to the Santa Fe postmaster, and asked him to send it back to me."
"I don't care how you did it." Randy shoved the box back at his grinning friend.
"Notice how I attached the alarm trigger to the lid of the box?"
"Ingenious," Randy said, his sarcasm thickening. "I've been wondering who made off with my alarm clock."
"You can have it back now. I won't need it where I'm going. The roosters wake you up there."
"Where?"
Bart tapped the box labeled rattlesnake eggs.
"New Mexico."
"New Mexico!" Randy Hendricks rubbed the knee he had banged on the bottom of the table. "When?"
Bart shoved two train tickets across the table. "I leave for Dodge City tomorrow afternoon. From Dodge I take the stagecoach to Santa Fe."
"What'll your old man say?"
Bart shrugged. "He's in Houston. He won't know a thing about it until I'm long gone."
Randy fell back in his chair to study Bart's face. It looked sincere this time, but with Bart Young, you could never be certain. "Who's the other ticket for?"
"You."
Randy scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Now I know you're insane. You'd better cash in those tickets and start paying attention to your studies if you ever want to pass the bar."
Bart's grin flashed quickly across his face. He had perfect teeth and flaunted them often. He used the grin to draw attention away from his forehead, which worried him a great deal. He was only twenty, but his hairline was already receding. He planned to grow a beard to make up for the loss, just as soon as he was safely beyond the reach of his father in New Mexico. "That's just it," he said, "I've already passed the bar."
"You couldn't pass the bar examination given free run of the library."
Bart shoved his beer mug aside, opened a manila envelope on the table, and pulled some documents out. "Take a look at these."
Randy's brow wrinkled above his green eyes, and he scratched his curly red hair like a dog with fleas. It was an annoying habit with him. Suddenly, though, his fingernails stopped working his scalp and he sat perfectly still, staring at the papers in his hands. "Where did you get this diploma?" He shuffled the documents. "And this is a certificate from the Texas bar! How did you get these?"
"I found some old diplomas nobody ever claimed in the files of the bursar's office when I worked there last year. I just bleached the old names off and…"
"Never mind. I don't want to know." Randy shoved the papers back at Bart as if they were burning his hands.
"As for the bar certificate, my father won't miss it for another--"
"I said, I don't want to know! Someday one of these little tricks of yours is going to get you into trouble."
As the redhead put his mug to his lips and tilted it, Bart reached across the table and lifted the bottom of the glass, causing beer to cascade down Randy's chin.
"Dang it, Bart! You're going to chip a tooth doing that!"
Bart slapped the table and laughed. "But seriously, don't you think it would be funny to pull one over on the whole university and the bar association?"
Randy glowered as he dried his chin. "When you talked me into leaving the milk cow on the second floor of the library--now, that was funny. Loosening the hubs on Professor Stangle's buggy was funny. But this…" He paused to look over his shoulder. "This is forgery," he said in a whisper.
"That's not what you called it when I faked your father's handwriting."
Randy squirmed a little in his chair. Once, when he had spent his quarterly allotment on a Bourbon Street harlot, Bart had helped him out by forging his father's signature on a check.
"That was different," Randy said. "That was between me and my old man. But this…" He gestured fearfully toward the manila envelope.
"They won't know the difference, or care, out in New Mexico. It's wide open out there."
Randy frowned and shook his head. "Why New Mexico, of all the godforsaken places?"
"Because a good lawyer can make a fortune out there with those old Spanish land grants."
"The only problem is you're not a good lawyer. You're not a lawyer at all. Do you know the first thing about acquiring a Spanish land grant?"
"We'll figure it out. We'll have more money and land than you ever dreamed of."
"So, it's the land thing again. Bart, you wouldn't know what to do with my granddaddy's forty-acre farm. What makes you think you could manage a New Mexico land grant?"
"There's nothing to it. We get some old Spanish grant, make a few improvements, sell it off at a huge profit, then buy a bigger place. You can handle all the legal stuff, and I'll take care of the land."
Randy started to argue but knew it was useless. Bart Young would persist. With exams coming up, he didn't have the time to waste in debate. He simply sighed and looked away.
"My old man fought there during the war, you know. He told me about the mountains. Most beautiful place in the world, he said. It's got to have something if even my old man can rave about it."
Randy looked at Bart straight-faced and threw his arms into the air. "All right." He picked up one of the railroad tickets and rose from the table.
"You mean it?"
"If we're leaving tomorrow. I'd better go pack. And you'd better get to work on my diploma."
Bart's face made a rare reflection of surprise. He had doubted he would succeed in uprooting Randy from his studies even if he talked all night, which he had been prepared to do. But now it appeared the redhead was finally loosening up and deciding to live. "Well, I'll be damned! My good influence is rubbing off on you." He got up to follow his friend out of the saloon.
They squinted against the afternoon sun as they stepped out onto Bourbon Street.
"You won't regret it," Bart said. "This is the best decision you'll ever make." He...