The Last Vagabond

By J. Fran Baird

1934Emil Langerzweig's public censure of Nazi collaboration forced him to flee his homeland with a young son and a dream. In Austria, his aristocratic family raised Lipizzaner horses for the Spanish Court. In America, he'd change his name to Longbranch, modify the age-old tradition, raise Thoroughbreds.

Thad Longbranch, third-generation cowboy at the reins of the "Bar L," is living his grandfather's dream, confident his children will insure continuity of the dynasty. Buffered by fifteen-thousand acres in the foothills of the Rockies, his wife Sam seems content homeschooling, writing children's books. Satisfying, predictable, life is gooduntil the letters arrive.

Bearing the Colorado State Seal, the first missive poses a request that thrusts Sam into the political arena, fosters a relationship with a charming would-be Governor, jeopardizes a twenty-year marriage. Postmarked Mexico, the second letter reveals a longheld secret, a secret that threatens succession of the Longbranch family, and propels a crazed Mexican drug lord across the border to Colorado in search of an orphaned boy.

Sprinkled with humorempathetic characters and villains you'll love to hate, bring to life this fast-paced tale of passion, murder, remorse and acceptance of a child who may lay claim to a fortunethe last vagabond.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475930795

J. Fran Baird

A Brooklyn, New York native, Ms. Baird’s exposure to a diverse, multi-cultural community, and a career path that led to oft-changing venues, provide fodder for her stories. Author of Annie’s Portion and The Last Vagabond, she lives on the Gold Coast of Florida with an assortment of critters.

Book preview

Chapter I

Karol had never experienced a loving relationship with any female. Intimidated by the red, wrinkled, flannel-wrapped bundle placed in her arms, Marie Langerzweig entrusted the care of her newborn son to servants. Any vestige of maternal warmth evaporated just eighteen months later when Marie died birthing his sister. Baby Marie was a sickly child and followed her mother to the grave when Karol was three leaving behind nothing more than the memory of a small white casket covered with a blanket of pink roses.

Household help and a governess or two passed through Karol’s early years but at the insistence of his autocratic father Emil, there would be no fraternizing with the help, the boy’s only solace from the horses—the wonderful Lipizzaners his father bred and trained in the little town of Piber for the Spanish Riding School in Vienna.

Circumstances were about to change, the year 1934. Emil Langerzweig had been openly critical of Nazi influence in the Austrian parliament. His refusal to salute the Nazi flag resulted in a fine and three-day jail sentence. With German invasion imminent, the choice for Emil was indisputable. He and Karol must leave the homeland, abandon their beloved Lipizzaners, seek sanctuary in America.

Though he managed to leave the old country with considerable assets, Emil put his aristocratic pride in his pocket and anglicized his name. It was Emil Longbranch when he turned up with Karol at a Virginia thoroughbred farm-an alien world, a new language.

Willie Tibbs, official trainer at Brockton Farms, gave the displaced Austrian his first break but Willie’s wife Claire, the household cook, was less forbearing.

What you want to mess with that Gypsy for? He’s just another drifter ... a foreigner at that. Can barely speak English.

He speaks horse, doesn’t need to speak English. He’s not your average rail-rider, knows enough about horses to teach me a thing or two, Willie countered. Besides, I thought you might like to have that tow-head to mother.

Well, I do kinda feel sorry for the boy. Seems smart enough, speaks a few words of English, got good manners.

It didn’t take long for Willie to recognize Emil’s remarkable ability. Say, Emil. Where’d you learn so much about horses? Don’t seem like you were just a hired hand.

With time, improved language skills and some prodding from Willie, Emile shared his story, revealed his obsessive desire to raise his own horses one day. I can no longer train my wonderful Lipizzaners, but I will learn to raise Quarter Horses like you.

Willie Tibbs admired Emil, told Claire, That man’s got principles ... gumption too. You wait and see. He’ll do what he says, someday have a horse farm.

You gonna teach him all your secrets, Claire teased.

I’ll teach him horse-breeding American style. What are you gonna do when the boy leaves? Seems you got a mite attached to him.

Charged with Karol’s supervision, Aunt Claire, the title she’d acquired, provided the one bright spot for the withdrawn child during those years of transition. With pent up feelings of denied motherhood, she doted on the boy, fattened him up, taught him English, and despite a feigned brusque manner, pacified his need for affection. It was Willie who provided the foundation for Emil’s later success as a rancher, but it was Claire who taught the vagabonds the meaning of compassion. When the time came for Emil to strike out on his own, Colorado the destination, Claire and Karol hid their pain.

With Emil searching for ranchland on the Western slope of the Rockies, correspondence between the men had been sporadic. Found a cowboy, he told Willie in broken English. Seems like he knows a lot about Quarter Horses. He’s helping me find a good place for horses.

Think you can trust him? Willie cautioned. Better watch your wallet.

Oh, sure. His name is Ezekiel, just like in the bible. Ezekiel Carson. I think he is relative of a hero of the west named ‘Kit.’

Willie was not impressed, told Claire, I know Emil’s from a distinguished family and he’s smart enough about horses. But I sure hope he don’t get taken for a ride by ‘Kit’ Carson’s distant relative. Wonder what he thinks about Colorado.

He’s gonna find America’s a lot bigger than that Austria place he came from, said Claire.

Claire had been right. Emil loved the scenery—snow-capped Rockies reminding him of Austrian alps. But he was overwhelmed by the vastness of the state. The west is very different than Virginia, he said to Karol.

With Karol wedged between them, Zeke and Emil combed the area along the I-70 corridor, from Cameo to Rifle. Can’t be too high in the mountains, needs to be close enough to transportation, Zeke advised. But weeks of tramping through mesquite and brush, locating boundary markers, investigating water rights and Bureau of Land Management restrictions, merited a reward.

Think I found the place, Emil, Zeke said with more enthusiasm than was his style. Big enough, plenty of water ... even got a cabin.

Tucked into the foothills of the Rockies, a two-hour drive up a rutted road from Rifle, the Bar L was every inch a man’s world. It had taken years of backbreaking toil to transform a rotting cabin and fifteen-thousand acres of fallow land into one of the most successful ranches in Colorado. There’d been little time for fraternizing, no female presence at the ranch for all those years. Emil provided adequately for Karol’s practical needs but was insensitive to emotional ones. Substituting for the disengaged father Zeke, while he lived, became teacher and friend.

It wasn’t till Willie Tibbs died that Emil invited Aunt Claire to the Bar L. We need a woman out here, he said. These cowpokes are just like animals and you’re the only one who can straighten Branch out, teach him some manners.

Who in the world is Branch? she questioned.

Emil laughed. That was Zeke’s nickname for Karol. Teased him about Karol being a girl’s name and started calling him ‘little Branch.’ You know, short version of Longbranch. After a while our boy made him drop the ‘little,’ said it was ‘insultin.’ So now it’s just Branch.

Claire arrived at the ranch prepared to take up where she’d left off, provide the mother-love she’d earlier bestowed. But the boy she remembered had come of age; all too soon Branch was graduating prep-school. Emil had been of two minds, needed his son on the ranch but wanted the Longbranch dynasty to be carried on by a venerable heir. The aristocrat in him won and Branch was packed off to Colorado State University, home for holidays and summers. As if that had not been disappointing enough, Claire would soon have to share him with another woman.

Smart and ambitious, Abby Mason was about to graduate cum laude, had breezed through her courses at Colorado State, her one addiction—men. She targeted Branch first time she spotted him in the CSU library. Ten years her senior, already tried and tempered by the harsh life of a mountain rancher, he was no ordinary student—no pseudo-cowboy. He was the real thing.

Focused on one objective, raising the best Quarter Horses in Colorado, Branch enrolled in an advanced course on Artificial Insemination of Breeding Stock. He scarcely noticed Abby, his indifference intensifying her appetite, a challenge she couldn’t blow off.

Abby should have been packaged with a warning sign—amber caution light hanging from a chain around her neck. She was champagne. A natural blonde she bubbled, she tickled, she made a guy giddy and left him with a lamentable hangover. The cowboy was roped and hogtied without a fight. Before the year was out they were married and Branch introduced his bride to the foothills of the Rockies, and the not quite luxurious Bar L ranch. Surprised and dissatisfied with his son’s choice of life companion, Emil remained aloof. Claire made no secret of her feelings about that baggage.

It may have been only a thousand miles from her Chicago home but for Abby it was another world, one she hated—isolated and inescapable during the unbearably cold winters. She spent her first one curled on the big leather sofa facing the huge fireplace, eating chocolates, reading and dreaming of other places. She saw little of Branch during the day but exhausted him at night, her sexual desires insatiable. Once the weather warmed enough to melt the snow, and the road to Rifle became passable, Abby made tracks—gone days at a time.

Summers, when returning wranglers and hands brought the ranch to life, were more to Abby’s liking, added to Branch’s displeasure. With the road to Rifle open most of the time, there were many opportunities to go into Grand Junction on any of the frequent supply runs, cowboys delighted to have her company.

On their third wedding anniversary, Abby informed Branch of her pregnancy. I’m going to have a baby, she declared. But I sure as hell don’t want to have it here. I’m going home to Chicago, where I can be with family and real people ... have a decent doctor and respectable hospital.

Branch saw no sense arguing, thought it was for the best. If that’s what you want to do it’s okay with me. I’ll get out to Chicago for the baby’s birth and bring you both back to the ranch.

The day he drove Abby to the airport in Junction was the last time he ever saw her. She wrote a few times but postmarks on the letters were never from the same place. The missives stopped coming a month before the baby was due.

Bureau of Land Management jurisdiction, water rights, fences, politics—the Cattlemen’s meeting lived up to expectations. Branch skipped out early and headed for Grand Junction’s Post Office. The box was filled with standard rancher’s fare—periodicals, ads, bills. But there was one piece of mail that escaped his immediate attention. He tossed the bundle in the truck and lit out for the Bar L. Had he sifted more carefully he would have noticed the envelope addressed to Karol Longbranch in Abby’s hand, postmarked Chicago, inside a letter written six years after her disappearance.

The noise of the diesel engine alerted Claire to Branch’s return. Come on in, she hollered. Got a mess of venison stew waitin’ for ya.

Branch dumped the mail on the dining room table. Spotting the letter, recognizing the crisp hand, his first instinct was to toss it. Instead he pushed it into a rear pocket. No need getting Claire’s nose in it.

It wasn’t until after dinner Claire noticed the snip of white paper protruding from Branch’s pocket. Forget to leave somethin’ in the outhouse? followed by the expected cackle.

Embarrassed, Branch reached for the letter. Oh, it’s just some junk mail. Meant to throw it away. He stared at it just long enough to rouse Claire’s curiosity.

Let me see what you got there. Whatcha trying to hide?

Knowing she would not be satisfied till she had the envelope in hand, he tossed it on the counter.

Spying the neat script, hands on hips, she questioned, Whatcha waitin’ for, Christmas? Ain’t you gonna open it?

No. All it’ll do is stir up bad memories. If you’re so damn interested, you open it.

Claire wasted no time. She tore open the envelope that held a letter, a note and a photo. She stared at the photo for a long time. It was the picture of a young boy, maybe four or five years old. It could have been Branch as a child—sandy hair, light eyes. She laid the snapshot on the table, picked up the letter.

Dear Branch,

I know I haven’t written in a long time and I’m sorry. But things have been kind of tough since the baby arrived. Thaddeus was born on February 5th, 1962. I swear by all the truth I have left in my life that he is your son. He hasn’t had much of a childhood but he’s a sweet little boy. You know what I’m like and what kind of mother I’ve probably been. You’re right, lousy. But I’m really sick now and I’ve asked a friend to send this letter to you and take care of Thad if something happens to me. So if you get this you’ll know something has.

Percy is well meaning but not too swift and I hope he gets things right. But he can’t keep Thad. You have to come for your son and provide what he’s entitled to. I should have done it sooner. Too drugged out most of the time to care. I’m so sorry for everything but don’t take it out on him. He’s innocent and needs his father and Aunt Claire. Please, please - I beg you don’t desert our son.

PS - I really did love you in my own crazy way. Abby Longbranch

Claire laid the letter on the table and reached for her notorious pink kerchief, blotted her eyes a few times and gave a hard blow. She picked up the last piece of crinkled paper. Looking like the inside of a torn envelope from an add, it was barely legible.

dear Mr Abby ask me to send this an i hope you get it. she is dead from to much stuf. i took Thad and dint tell no one bout him. I cant have him no more so you got to come for him soon or i gonna be in bad him to. my name is Percy i live at 277 Hasted

Claire pushed the small pile of paper in front of Branch. Read, she said through her sniffles.

Branch looked at the picture first, then the note from Percy. He sat stone-faced for several minutes before reaching for Abby’s letter. He laid his head on his arms and for the first time in his life wept openly.

It was no small feat tracking the elusive drifter, Percy. Branch could find no street in Chicago named Hasted. Not wanting to elicit attention or answer too many questions he made several futile attempts to locate the address Percy provided in his note. Extensive research at the public library unearthed three streets in central Chicago with names that were close—Haster, Hamsted and Halsted. Only one of the three, Halsted, showed a number 277. But Branch discovered there was a north and south Halsted. He began his search at the north end, near Lake Shore. If a building had ever existed at the site where number 277 should have been, it was long gone. What remained was a weed and garbage-strewn lot. It took days for him to cover the four miles of Halsted Street, detouring to adjoining side streets, searching for number 277. Branch returned each night to the hotel, weary, hungry and discouraged.

What’s got you so depressed pal? Woman problem? After his first night’s visit the bartender poured the scotch before he ordered it.

Wish it was that simple, Branch answered. It’s a damn number.

Number? Like on a bet or something?

No, number like on a building. One that doesn’t seem to exist.

I know this town like the back of my hand. Used to drive a cab. Whatch lookin’ for?

277 Halsted, Hamsted or Haster. Now think you can help?

Don’t know about the others but I sure am familiar with Halsted. It’s a main drag, runs four or five miles north to south. Addresses have to include the directions ... north or south.

So I found out. Covered the north and there’s nothing where 277 should be. No such number on south Halsted. So I just have to make my way up and down, side to side. Branch was on his second scotch.

Seems to me that number might be wrong. The further south you go the higher the numbers get. Like, you get to 127th and the numbers are in the two-thousands. That’s pretty near the end of Halsted, down by the canal.

Dang ... why didn’t I think of that? Branch smacked his head and picked up the third drink. Stupid is why ... just plain stupid. That area’s pretty seedy isn’t it?

Yeah, sure is. Close to the old stockyards. Lots of industrial stuff too.

"Oh sure, the meatpacking scandal ... Armour and Swift. Read about them in Upton Sinclair’s book, The Jungle."

May have been bad but it put twenty, thirty-thousand people to work here.

That’s got to be the area. Tomorrow.

Chapter II

Winter of ‘68 had been one of the cruelest. The derelict warehouse near the north end of the Chicago River was a veritable icebox. One or both of two huge access doors were invariably frozen, ice too compacted to allow the uninvited, emaciated occupants to slide them shut. Frigid air blowing off Lake Michigan had uncontested right-of-way into the cavernous interior. It had patterned the concrete floor with solidified spittle.

Branch had been surprised to find that 2377 S. Halsted was neither the run-down rattrap nor rooming-house he’d envisioned. It had become a refuge, where in a secluded corner of the building a number of cardboard and wood-pallet lean-to’s protected many of the city’s discards—homeless addicts and human refuse. But somewhere in the warren a misfit, a child of six, was hidden away.

As Branch closed in on the squatters they seemed to melt into their respective shelters. His attempt to question those who showed signs of comprehension was fruitless, until he pulled out his wallet. Once word got around there was money to be made the drifter, only known name Percy, was given up.

He lay in a fetal position in a cardboard grotto. Though in a drug-induced stupor, he shivered uncontrollably in the sub-freezing semi-darkness; having served its purpose a hypodermic syringe lay beside him on the floor. Tucked behind a child-size parka, were a coloring book and a few broken crayons. An open cigar box held collectibles—empty matchbox, model Corvette, charm bracelet given Abby when love was young. The owner of the cache was nowhere to be seen.

Conspicuously out of place, the tall man wearing expensive cowboy boots, western shirt and leather jacket stood in front of Percy’s refuge, a wrinkled piece of paper in his hand. Steam escaped his mouth in quickly disintegrating billows as his eyes searched the miserable surroundings. It would soon be dark and the temperature would drop precipitously. Branch was determined to get what he’d come for, had traveled a thousand miles to retrieve Thad.

Where is the boy? he demanded as he tried to shake Percy from his coma.

When it became obvious Percy would be out for a long time, Branch made a cursory search of the loft. There were other rooms, ingeniously constructed of all manner of wreckage. He called out to Thad, got no reply. Dejected, he made the rounds again trying to buy information that would expose Thad’s whereabouts. No one blabbed and Branch realized even among the destitute there remained a trace of integrity. Fearing the boy would be picked up by authorities, no one wanted to rat.

He’d been forced to make several trips to 2377 S. Halsted before finding Percy lucid, Abby’s description of the man confirmed as soon as Percy spoke. Percy was not too swift, but determined to protect his charge.

How do I know you is who you say? You could be from Children’s Services. Maybe take him to an orphanage or foster home. That’d be no good.

Branch pulled out all his ID cards—driver license, credit cards, membership card from the Colorado Rancher’s Association. Only then did Percy agree to bring Thad to him.

You wait here now an’ I’ll go get him, Percy said, a hint of doubt in his voice.

Branch fought his own bout of skepticism. What am I doing here? How do I know this kid is really mine?"

He’d had the same argument with Claire. She’d been tough on him. What’s the worst that kin happen? If it turns out he ain’t yours, does it matter? You’ll be givin’ Abby’s kid a chance ’stead of havin’ him grow up in a den of druggies or bein’ grabbed by them goody-two-shoe social workers. Then he’d be bounced around from one foster home to another. You got no heirs who’ll be deprived of their inheritance. You’d have a son of your own to take over when you go ... ‘ceptin’ you expect to live forever.

You just want another baby to mother, he said hurtfully.

But as he sat cross-legged on the sleeping bag, watching the child about to become his responsibility, Branch conceded, Claire’s right. There’s nothing else to do.

Of his years with his mother Thaddeus Longbranch recalled little, perhaps from choice. But the chronicle of that time was not the least bit novel. There were vague images of locked closets, a fair-haired angel he was to call Abby and men—men who took his place in the bed next to Abby, were rough on him and hurt him. He remembered her illness and the needles Percy stuck in her arms. To help her get well, Percy said. But Abby did not get well and a month shy of his sixth birthday she was gone. Thad watched as Percy took an envelope from her hand and pulled the faded blanket over her head.

We gotta go now, boy. Gotta get out before the cops come, Percy urged.

I don’t want to leave Abby, he cried.

Abby’s gone to heaven and she ain’t never comin’ back. Now hurry. Let’s get some of your stuff and we’ll go to my place.

Percy’s place was worse than Abby’s. Thad had to stay in a room made of cardboard boxes and sleep on the floor. The place was never quiet, shouts and curses echoing through the cavernous building and strange people shuffling about in its garbage-strewn vastness. Thad was afraid and cold all the time. Percy would not let him leave the make-shift habitat so he spent his days playing with imaginary friends and a few treasured keepsakes—waiting for Percy to return with the day’s rations. At night he tried to shut out the countless noises by talking to Abby, staring at her picture in the semi-darkness. He wished he was with her even if it meant getting whacked and staying in the closet sometimes. It was better than this.

The man came—different, tall and clean, smelled good. He wore real cowboy boots. Percy told him, This here’s ya father. Ya gotta go with him now.

Thad didn’t know what a father was or why he was expected to go with the man with the boots. I don’t want to go anywhere except back to Abby.

I told you. Abby’s gone to heaven. I can’t keep you here no more. Besides it’s bad for a kid to be in this place. Percy rummaged about in a mind as cluttered as his living quarters. Know ya name doncha?

Sure. It’s Thaddeus Longbranch.

Well, see now. This here is Branch Longbranch, your daddy. Got the same name as you.

No answer.

Your mother, Abby, and I lived together on a ranch in Colorado. You were almost born there but we were so far up in the mountains Abby decided to come to the city so you could be born in a hospital with good doctors to take care of you.

Thad seemed to be growing more interested so Branch went on. He struggled to find words to explain a situation he couldn’t even explain to himself.

Well, Abby got to liking Chicago and wanted to live here with you, but I had to stay on the ranch to take care of the horses and cattle. So we go separated for a while.

You have horses?

Branch had baited the child, time to reel him in. Sure do. Lots of them ... and cows too. Bet you could learn to ride real quick.

See, said Percy. Didn’t I tell you it’d be better for you to go with your dad?

Would I have to sleep with horses?

No, you’d have a room of your own with a real bed and lots of toys and your Aunt Claire to feed you until your tummy said ‘ouch.’

Thad smiled for the first time—a beautiful, white-toothed smile. Can Percy come with us?

Percy spared Branch from answering the worrisome question. Naw, Thad. I got things to do right here in Chicago. But you can write and tell me ‘bout all your adventures.

No two places could have been more disparate than Chicago and Cutter Lake, home of the Bar L. Thad was more fearful than he’d been in the make-shift room with Percy, could not have imagined a more unfamiliar environment. There had been a certain security in the confinement of a large city, comfort in the familiar sounds of an active world filled with people and traffic. But at the Bar L there was no traffic, crowds or skyscrapers to make him feel at home, and the few wranglers on the ranch were always occupied with their own chores. Emil preoccupied most of the time, ignored the boy he refused to believe was his grandson. Branch found it difficult to relate to a child of six. Claire welcomed Thad with her usual exuberance, startling the child unused to such buoyant affection. She fussed over him, fed him and worried about his timidity and lack of manners or any formal education. He needed to be in school and she told Branch so more than once.

To Branch, Thad remained a child of questionable origin. He doubted the truth of Abby’s claim. Was he really a Longbranch?

Claire chewed him out. Just look at the boy. He’s the spitting image of you ... even to his disagreeable nature.

To my mind she had nowhere else to send him and figured me for a softie.

You a softie? Why, you’re mean as a grizzly. You show that boy no affection at all. No wonder he doesn’t know what to make of us. The cowhands devote more time to him than you do.

I don’t like to think I’ve been played a fool.

If you don’t accept Thaddeus as your own child, you are a fool.

Except for Claire, Thad was isolated. Providing his only companionship, she showed her affection by stuffing him full of unfamiliar food, just as Branch had said. Her efforts to improve his manners went unheeded. She tried to interest the boy in reading; he was a restless unresponsive pupil. He was timid, awkward and ill-at-ease around horses. Toys carved of pine—horseback cowboys, steers, a tractor, a pistol—were of interest for a short time. With no playmates