Texas Empire

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

A rainbow of colors rippled off the water from a warm July sun. Jordan reined his horse across the river in the early afternoon and rode toward town. His gaze was fixed, the look of a man troubled by time and events. He wondered if he would still own the ranch at sundown.

Pueblo was situated in the southern foothills of the Rockies. The surrounding countryside was arid, despite the proximity of the Arkansas River to the town. Eastward lay a vista of broken plains, and to the west towering summits were still capped with snow. The mountains marched northward like an unbroken column of sentinels.

By 1874, as the railway center for Southern Colorado, Pueblo had at last achieved its place on the map. The road into town crossed the Denver & Rio Grande tracks, which extended some ninety miles northward to Denver. Directly past the tracks, Pueblo’s main throughfare was clogged with wagons and buggies, and the boardwalks were crowded with shoppers. The street was jammed with shops and stores, and a block away the new courthouse was in the final stages of construction. The arrival of the railroad had transformed a once isolated outpost into a bustling little metropolis.

As he rode past the Manitou House Hotel, Jordan was reminded that things were not always as they appeared. The area’s outlying farmers and ranchers still brought their trade to town; but they now existed on the limited credit extended by merchants. The business district looked busy, and for the most part, shops and stores remained open for business. Yet there was a stark difference since last year’s financial panic. These days no one had any cash money.

Jordan was strapped for cash himself. For a time, operating on wishful thinking, he believed he could ride out the economic collapse. But as he was forced to sell off his herd, he found himself brought face-to-face with reality. The monthly upkeep for the ranch became an intolerable burden, and though it went against the grain, there was no choice but to lay off the majority of his crew. Leigh Dyer, his foreman, and the other hands still on the payroll had been with him since the days of the trail drives from Texas. He went without in order to pay their wages.

Upstreet from the hotel, Jordan reined in before the Stock Growers Bank. He dismounted, looping the reins around a hitch rack, and stepped onto the boardwalk. As he moved toward the door, he swatted trail dust off his clothes, the bulge of a Colt Peacemaker obvious beneath his jacket. Sunlight on the bank’s plate-glass window reflected his image, and he thought he looked every inch the impostor. A cattleman trying to pass himself off as a business tycoon. He steeled himself to play the part.

Inside, one of the bookkeepers ushered him into Franklin Thatcher’s private office. A sturdy man, the banker’s beard was dappled with gray and his hair was thinning out above a craggy forehead. George Hinsdale, their partner in several enterprises, was seated in one of the chairs ranged before the desk. A merchant by trade, he was cadaverous in build, with watery brown eyes and a reedy voice. He nodded to Jordan with solemn geniality.

Jack, Thatcher said, motioning him into a chair. Good to see you. I trust your ride in was uneventful.

No highwaymen, Jordan said wryly, seating himself and placing his hat on the edge of the desk. Country’s gone plumb civilized.

I do appreciate your wit, Jack. Where would we be without a sense of humor? Hmmm?

Thatcher was an urbane man, with the charm common to genteel Southerners. A native of Tennessee, he’d brought his family west following the Civil War, and settled in Pueblo in 1865. The remnants of an inheritance had allowed him to found the bank, and prosper along with the town’s growth. He was shrewd and wily, a core of iron beneath the veneer of breeding.

George Hinsdale, by contrast, had established the town’s first general store. From there, he expanded into a wholesale liquor business and a large grocery store. Even in hard times people needed food and whiskey, and he was rumored to be the richest man in Pueblo. Sly and crafty, a notorious tightwad, he squeezed profit from whatever passed through his hands.

When their business association began, Jordan considered himself fortunate to be involved with men of such acumen and experience. In the boomtime growth of Pueblo, their investments, at least on paper, had multiplied far beyond their original expectations. But with the crash on Wall Street, and the ripple effect westward, the attitude of Thatcher and Hinsdale had undergone a pronounced change. Jordan discovered that friendship and business, like oil and water, was a tenuous mix. He waited to hear why they had called today’s meeting.

The amenities observed, Thatcher went straight to the point. Jack, I want you to know we value our association with you, and have the utmost regard for your integrity. That said, we are confronted with a dismal situation … absolutely hopeless.

Jordan held his gaze. Hopeless in what way?

In the sense that we—George and I—have a fiduciary responsibility to the stockholders of this bank. Our mandate, by law, requires that we safeguard the bank’s assets.

Aren’t you forgetting I’m a stockholder, too?

A minority stockholder, Thatcher corrected him. George and I control the majority interest.

Way it sounds, Jordan said, we’re talking about you and George protecting yourselves. Where does that leave me?

I regret to say it places you in an untenable position. Unless, of course, you have some means of raising additional funds.

You know I’m strapped for money. Hell, I’ve sold off my herd and fired more than thirty hands. Where would I raise more cash?

I have no idea, Jack. We were hopeful you might have found a solution.

There was a prolonged silence. Thatcher and Hinsdale waited for him to reply, as though he might perform a feat of magic before their eyes. Jordan had the feeling he was holding the losing hand in a high-stakes poker game. He shook his head.

So what are you getting at?

Thatcher’s expression was sorrowful. The Rock Canyon ranch was used as collateral for your loans in our various business ventures. Again, I regret to say those ventures are now victim to a depressed marketplace.

Spell it out, Jordan demanded. Are you calling my note?

What other choice do we have, Jack? It’s simply business, nothing personal.

When you’re talking about me losing the ranch, that’s personal. Goddamn personal!

Thatcher spread his hands in a bland gesture. We all suffer a reversal of fortune at some time in our lives. I have every confidence you’ll rebound with flying colors.

Jordan gave him a wooden look. I expected more out of you boys. Figured you’d cut me a little slack when it got down to sink or swim. He paused, glancing from one to the other. Guess there’s some truth to that old saying about fair-weather friends.

So far Hinsdale had remained a spectator. But now, in his reedy voice, he joined the conversation. No need for you to take that attitude, not at this late date. We’ve carried you till the well run dry.

George, that’s hogwash and we all know it. You two haven’t lost a plugged nickel on me. I paid my way right along.

Wasn’t for us, Hinsdale said sharply, you would’ve folded long before now. That’s the plain fact of the matter.

Truth is, you boys could carry me till hell freezes over. Between the two of you, you’ve got more money than God.

Jack, please understand, Thatcher interjected softly. When you say sink or swim, you’re asking us to go under with you. I hardly think that’s a reasonable request.

Jordan’s features turned sphinxlike. He saw now that they meant to take the ranch, and friendship be damned. All his life he had refused to beg favors, and he wasn’t about to start. Tall and wide-shouldered, in his prime at thirty-three, his square features were set off by a thatch of chestnut hair and a brushy mustache. His eyes were piercing, a striking mix of gray-blue, and left other men with the impression he could read minds. He looked born to command a cattle outfit.

Four years ago Jordan had purchased the rights to a Spanish land grant from the last descendent of an old Mexican family. When the papers were signed, he became the sole owner of a hundred thousand acres grazeland, extending twenty-five miles along the Arkansas. The range was well watered, sheltered from plains blizzards by Rock Canyon, and covered with lush grama grass that fattened steers. At the time, he looked upon it as bounty from the gods.

By 1872 Jordan was running some ten thousand head of cattle, the largest outfit in Colorado. The civic leaders of Pueblo sought him out, and association with the town fathers quickly led to an array of business opportunities. In league with Thatcher, and a prominent businessman, George Hinsdale, he set about expanding into diversified holdings. By early 1873 he was a principal in the bank, and a joint investor in business buildings, residential city lots, and a meat-packing plant.

On paper, late in the summer of 1873, Jordan’s net worth exceeded a million dollars. His wealth made him the most eligible bachelor, and certainly the prize catch, in all of southern Colorado. The woman who caught him, after a brief courtship, was Rebecca Thatcher, the daughter of Franklin Thatcher. She was twelve years younger than Jordan, considered the belle of Pueblo, and the only woman he’d ever met who was spirited enough to prove his equal. Her father still had lingering reservations about the age difference, but she had proved to be his equal as well. Their engagement had been announced in late August of 1873.

The bubble burst in late September. Jay Cooke & Company, the most prestigious financial institution on Wall Street, closed its doors. That afternoon thirty-seven banks and brokerage houses went under. An hour later, the board of governors suspended trade on the New York Stock Exchange. Before the debacle ran its course, five thousand businesses would be forced into bankruptcy.

The Panic of ’73 brought the nation to its knees.

With the economic collapse, America’s financial institutions crumbled into ruin. Investment capital withered overnight, and banks in Pueblo and other Colorado communities found themselves in perilous straits. Those that managed to stay afloat were forced to call in all outstanding loans, and quickly suspended activity on new loans. At the same time, the cattle market hit bottom, hovered there a couple of days, and then simply sank out of sight.

From Jordan’s standpoint, it was a disaster of monumental proportions. All of his cash had gone into Pueblo investment properties, and he had mortgaged the ranch to raise added investment funds for still more business concerns. At the time, with the economy booming and Pueblo the financial hub of southern Colorado, the opportunity had seemed golden. But with the catastrophic collapse of Wall Street, all of his investments were suddenly transformed into a mountain of debt.

To Jordan, the real estate properties and business concerns were of secondary interest. His single-minded goal was to resurrect from the ashes what he had worked toward all his life, the ranch. Over the past eleven months he had slowly sold off the Rock Canyon herd, timing his sales to a gradual increase in cattle prices. But now, with the herd down to sixteen hundred head, there was nowhere left to turn. The men seated across from him had him by the short hairs, and they knew it. He nodded to Thatcher.

Looks like I’ve been foreclosed. When do you want me off the ranch?

Oh, by all means, take your time, Thatcher said magnanimously. Three or four months, longer if need be. There’s little market for land in today’s economy.

Soon as I locate range for what’s left of the herd, I’ll clear out. Anything else?

Well, yes, there is— Thatcher wagged his head sadly. You realize that it’s not just the ranch. We’re talking about town property, the meat plant, your bank stock … everything.

Jordan grunted. You cut right to the bone, don’t you?

I’ve never regretted anything more in my life, Jack. I genuinely hope you understand.

Draw up the papers and I’ll sign ’em.

Jordan stood, clapped his hat on his head. He walked from the office without looking at either of them. When he emerged from the bank, his jaw was clamped in a tight line. He told himself he’d got in with fast company, where it was devil take the hindmost, and no second chances. All he’d worked for was now lost.

Yesterday a millionaire, and today out on the street with nothing to show for it. The hell of it was, he’d never seen a penny, and he never would.

He was stone broke.

CHAPTER 2

Jordan walked toward the post office. He thought he might as well collect the mail while he was in town. Then, however much he dreaded it, he would have to call on Rebecca. She had a right to hear the bad news from him directly.

Nothing was certain, but he doubted she’d heard it from her father. Thatcher would have kept it to himself, anticipating the news would draw her anger. They were already at odds over the engagement, which Thatcher had never fully accepted. With the wedding set for next month, her father probably planned to keep the matter secret until after today’s meeting. Rebecca was a spitfire when she lost her temper.

A thought occurred to Jordan. He wondered if Thatcher had timed foreclosure on the ranch in an effort to forestall the marriage. Certainly, as Thatcher had admitted in the meeting, the ranch was of no immediate value to the bank. So perhaps he had played a trump card, hoping his daughter would have second thoughts about marrying a penniless man. In a way, the idea had merit, for she was accustomed to money and position, the finer things in life. Still, Jordan couldn’t believe it would matter. She wasn’t a person to barter her affections.

Nor could he believe that Thatcher would resort to devious tricks. In a business deal, Thatcher was ever the banker, interested only in protecting himself and his assets. But he was a man of personal integrity, above some petty plot to spoil his daughter’s wedding. Yet one thought sparked another, and Jordan suddenly realized that he might have second thoughts himself. At the moment, he had a piddling herd of sixteen hundred cows, and a crew of cowhands whose next payday would empty his wallet. Not much to offer a girl who was accustomed to the finer things in life. Hardly the basis for a sound marriage.

Wedded bliss required that a man offer his wife more. Lots more.

Jordan was still mulling it over when he entered the post office. The clerk at the window took two letters from his box, and passed them across the counter. One was for a hand at the ranch, from his family back in Texas. The other was military-issue stationery, addressed to Jordan. He recognized the bold scrawl even before he looked at the return address. It was from Colonel Ranald Mackenzie, Fort Clark, Texas.

As he opened the letter, Jordan was reminded of other times, days past. In military circles, Colonel Ranald Mackenzie was considered the foremost Indian fighter on the frontier. A Civil War hero, Mackenzie had assumed command of the 4th Cavalry at Fort Concho in 1871. Something over a year later, disgusted with chasing Comanches who routinely outwitted army scouts, Mackenzie had contacted Sam Ross, former captain of the Texas Rangers. Mackenzie requested recommendations of a scout who was versed in the far-flung regions of the West Texas plains. Ross wrote back, recommending only one man, Jack