Destiny - The Callahans #1 (31 page)

But, the old man’s comment about millions had
raised the unspoken question of value, startling Tom. “Millions!”
Tom said again.

“Reckon that’d be ’bout right. That’s what I
figger I’ve got, and it weren’t as much as you and your uncle got
piled up. I’ll be glad to help you load it out, lad. I’m leaving
anyway, come breakup. I’ll be headin’ in to Fortymile to get a
couple of horses to haul it all out. We could do it together. What
say? I know you’re still a young man, but you reckon you got
enough?” he said, looking around the tent again.

Tom stood, lifted the tent flap and stepped
outside into the fading light of day. The sun had disappeared
behind the western mountain, which shaded their campsite from the
sunset throughout the winter months. The old man followed him out,
tossed the remains of his coffee into the stream, and stood next to
Tom in the twilight. After a few moments, Tom turned to look at the
older man.

“Reckon I’ve got enough,” Tom said.

Teresa drove the buggy hard, trying to reach
her home as quickly as she could. In her eighth month of pregnancy,
she had become bulky and awkward. The lean, athletic body she had
always enjoyed was temporarily gone, and she sat uncomfortably on
the buggy seat as it bounced and rocked along.

She had been surprised by how angry her
father had become. Don Sebastian was not a man given to fits of
temper or open displays of frustration, but the news Miguel brought
from the village had transformed him into an enraged man.
Displaying a degree of anger she had never seen in him, he had made
violent threats toward those who had deceived him. Even now, almost
an hour later, his words continued to ring in her ears.

“They will not live on my land and continue
this barbaric practice. They have deceived me!” he shouted, pacing
back and forth in the study. “Miguel, who told you these things?”
he demanded of his son.

“Father, Señor Rameriez in the village told
me himself. His oldest daughter was taken in marriage by one of the
colonists—a man with two wives already,” Miguel repeated.

“No! We will not tolerate this!” Don
Sebastian declared, slamming his fist down onto the desk.

“They are organizing the men to retrieve her.
They ride with anger, Father.”

Recognizing the potential for disaster, a
degree of caution began to overtake the older man. In his youth, he
had been involved in a prolonged family feud and had seen enough of
violence. He wished now to spare his people the kind of ugliness he
had seen and the sorrow that always came from such conflict.

“We must not have a blood bath, Miguel. You
must ride with them and bring order to this vengeance.”

“Sí, Father. I will do what I can, but the
men are very angry.”

Before leaving hurriedly for her home, Teresa
had seen Miguel organizing their father’s caballeros and had heard
the hooves of the horses as her brother and the men from the
hacienda rode out, intent on joining the mob from the village.
Whether to calm or to inflame, she knew not, for what she had seen
in her brother’s eyes frightened her.

Teresa knew what Don Sebastian did not: the
woman taken in marriage had been fancied by Miguel, and he had been
bested by the Yanqui—a married Yanqui.

“Miguel, please be rational. You must not do
this thing,” she had pleaded.

“Go home, Teresa. Stay in your house and tell
Harold also to stay away from the colony. You must not be involved
in this.”

“But I am. We are, Miguel. I am married to
one of them, and now, Juanita is married to one of them as
well.”

“So you are. So you both are,” he said,
mounting his horse. “If Harold is to stay alive, see that he stays
home with you,” he ordered, spurring his horse and leading the men
at a gallop, out through the gates of the hacienda and toward the
nearby Mexican village.

The memory of the encounter with her brother
and father still fresh in her mind, Teresa stopped the buggy in
front of the house and was met by one of the stable hands, who
helped her down from the buggy. “Señor Harold?” she queried.

“
No es aquí
,” he replied.

“Then where is he?” she asked, racing up the
front steps of the house.

“Señor Stromberg is in the colony,” he
pointed, indicating New Hope.

“No!” Teresa cried. “Katrina,” she shouted,
running to the bottom of the stairs, her swollen belly the unwieldy
companion of a woman in haste. “Katrina!”

Appearing at the top of the stairs, Katrina
moved quickly down the steps.

“What is it?” she said.

“We’ve got to get to the village. To warn the
people and Harold.”

“Warn them of what?” Katrina asked.

“The villagers are organizing. They’re very
angry, Katrina. One of the local girls has been taken in marriage
by one of your colonists—one who already has two wives. A mob, with
Miguel and some of father’s men, is riding toward the village. We
must warn them.”

“Let me get a coat. Are you sure you should
go?” Katrina asked, concerned for Teresa’s pregnancy.

“We must. Hurry, Katrina, hurry!”

The two women rode in silence, the horse
laboring to keep pace with the demands Teresa placed on him after
the earlier gallop from her father’s house. Reaching the outskirts
of New Hope, they could see the colonists, some of them toiling in
the fields, others working on partially constructed houses, and a
group loading a wagon with lumber that was being stored in the
large barn where Teresa had first met Katrina. The horse raced down
the slope toward the village, the buggy careening along behind and
both women hanging on over the bumpy, rutted cart path. Pulling her
horse to a stop in front of the barn, Katrina stood up in the
buggy, looking about wildly for Harold. He had seen the buggy
coming and now came running from where he had been overseeing the
construction of a house.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“Harold,” Teresa blurted out, “some of the
villagers are coming to rescue the village girl one of your
settlers married.”

“Rescue? She’s not being held captive.”

“Harold,” Teresa said, “this cannot continue.
The local people are angry. To live out your family lives in peace
as your father promised my father is one thing, but to continue
this terrible practice—the people will not tolerate it.”

“It is none of their business,” Harold stated
flatly.

Teresa was quiet for a moment, holding
Harold’s stare. “Harold, if my father knew of our arrangement,” she
said, pausing to look at Katrina and back again to Harold, “he
would kill you himself, if Miguel did not do it first. You have
deceived us all—not only my father, but me and Katrina as well.
This must stop, Harold. Here and now!”

Harold’s face reflected his shock at the
knowledge that both Katrina and Teresa knew of his duplicity. A
group of men had gathered behind him and were watching the scene
unfold. Harold turned to them.

“We’ve got trouble,” Harold said. “Teresa
says a mob is coming and they want Brother Williams’s wife
returned.”

One of the men nodded knowingly. “Didn’t
think it was a good idea—a local girl, I mean,” he said. “Better
get the women and children into the barn,” he suggested.

“Right, and round up the men. And Frank,”
Harold said, glancing up at Teresa and Katrina for a moment,
“better have them bring their guns.”

“Come, climb down, Teresa. You and Katrina
can stay in the barn with the women. We can’t risk the baby.”

“Harold, you’ve got to get away from here,”
Teresa pleaded again.

“No, I’ve got to stay. These are my people.
And Father will be here in a few minutes. C’mon, let me help you
down. Katrina, give her a hand,” Harold commanded.

“No!” Teresa shouted, striking out at Harold
with the buggy whip. “I can stop them,” she said, urging her horse
forward. Katrina held on, looking to the rear as Harold stood
helplessly, watching them drive away.

“Teresa!” he hollered after them. “Stay
here.”

Teresa turned the buggy around at the far end
of the compound and raced back past where the men were busy herding
the women and children into the barn. Harold stepped out in an
attempt to head the horse and stop the buggy, but Teresa steered
wide of him and went on by.

Pulling out of the colony and beginning the
climb back up the rutted road, Teresa and Katrina saw the first of
the Mexican riders come into view on the crest of the hill. They
paused to assess the scene below and wait for Teresa to drive the
buggy up to them.

As she jerked her horse to a stop in front of
the first riders, another group, this one led by Miguel, galloped
up in a swirl of dust. He spurred his horse through the cluster of
horsemen, over to the buggy.

“Teresa,” I told you to stay in your home,”
he said. “This is no place for you or Katrina.”

“Miguel, you cannot do this. They are armed
and will defend themselves.”

Standing in his stirrups and looking around
to the group of about thirty men on horseback, he shouted, “Do you
hear that,
compadres
? She says they are prepared to defend
themselves. Are we ready also?” He was answered by a chorus of
angry determination, shouted by the massed men.

Miguel sat back down on his saddle and leaned
over to speak to the man riding next to him, who immediately
dismounted and approached Teresa’s horse.

“Remain here, dear sister, and do not
interfere,” he said. “We want no more of these blasphemous
marriages, and it is time to tell them so. They have deceived Don
Sebastian,” Miguel exhorted, his voice rising, so the men could
hear his comments.

Spurring his horse, Miguel led the column of
riders down the hillside toward the cluster of New Hope men who had
been standing near the barn but who now scrambled for cover behind
their wagons and buildings. The young Mexican man who had
dismounted, remained behind, holding the bridle of Teresa’s horse
to prevent her from leaving. The two women watched as the riders
neared the community, the first shot ringing out loudly as one of
the Mormon settlers, frightened by the approaching mob, fired at
the horsemen. A volley of shots were fired immediately by both
groups and several of the men on horseback fell from their mounts,
the rest quickly riding for cover behind the homes and partially
completed buildings.

The man restraining Teresa’s horse had his
attention focused on the skirmish below, and Teresa suddenly lashed
out with her whip, striking him across his face and causing the
horse to rear. The man lost his hold on the bridle, and Teresa
quickly drove the buggy past him, heading back down the hill toward
the exchange of gunfire going on below. Katrina held on with both
hands as the buggy gyrated wildly over the uneven ground.

As they neared the bottom of the hill, one of
the rear wheels of the buggy rolled over a rock that sent the buggy
careening wildly sidewise before overturning and catapulting both
women off the seat and into a small, brush-filled gully. The horse
raced on, dragging the wildly bouncing vehicle after it.

Katrina hit the ground hard, stunned by the
impact and her breath knocked out of her. Dazed and struggling to
breathe, she rolled around in agony on the hot, rocky ground,
afraid for a few panic-filled moments she was not going to be able
to catch her breath. Then, recovering slightly, she began to look
about frantically for Teresa.

She saw her lying a few feet away, sprawled
in an awkward position, with blood running from her scalp, down
over her face. Katrina crawled painfully to Teresa’s side, and
cradling the bleeding woman’s head in her lap, she began to rock
back and forth, crying uncontrollably.

Hurting and shaken, Katrina didn’t know what
to do. The sound of gunfire continued to ring out, and she feared
for a time they might be hit by stray bullets. They were lying,
however, in the bottom of a little gully, which afforded some
shelter, but Teresa obviously needed help.

How long they remained there, listening to
the sound of the gun battle, Katrina did not know. She lost
consciousness and slept through the rest of the afternoon, finally
reviving as evening approached and Teresa began groaning. Random
gunfire could still be heard from the direction of the village,
although from their position in the gully, Katrina could not see
the buildings or any of the actual fighting.

Darkness slowly enveloped their sanctuary and
Katrina could tell that Teresa was in pain. She groaned more loudly
and almost continuously. Regaining consciousness, Teresa struggled
to speak and finally said in a weak voice, “The baby comes.”

“Oh, please, no!” Katrina cried. “We must
have help,” she said, looking around.

“No time,” Teresa said.

Through the night, the only light was the
distant glow of the fires that were consuming the village. In the
darkness of the ravine, Katrina worked to help Teresa deliver her
baby, praying constantly as she did so. Ever since she discovered
Harold’s duplicity, she had neglected her prayers, feeling somehow
unworthy to ask for help, but her supplications to Father in Heaven
this night were born of fear and desperation, and she plead for
help and for Teresa to survive her ordeal. In spite of the
desperate situation she and Teresa were in, Katrina was somewhat
comforted and knew what to do.

By the time it began to get light, Katrina
knew that the baby boy she had wrapped in his mother’s torn
petticoat, if he survived, would never know the loving and caring
mother who had given him life—a woman Katrina had come to love in
spite of their duplicate roles in Harold Stromberg’s life. During
the brief period they had been allowed to share knowledge of their
respective positions, Teresa and Katrina, while not in agreement
with the practice, nevertheless had come to understand how two
women could love each other and, indeed, the man also to whom they
were jointly married.