Earthbound: Science Fiction in the Old West (Chronicles of the Maca Book 1) (21 page)

“There it is, Rita. War has been declared between the Union and Secessionists.” Red tossed the paper over the entries she had been making.

Margareatha stared at the words marching across the front page of the St. Louis Dispatch and looked up at Red. “How will that affect us?”

“For one thing, the armies are going to want the grain. They'll fight over it. The Union isn't about to let a kernel of it go south. We need to change our base of operations.”

“But where will you find that amount of grain?”

“In California or up in Oregon. I'm relocating to Carson City, Nevada and spreading out from there. They've found gold and silver in Nevada. The Union will not let that go to the South either, but their control will be weak. Anywhere there is gold there is money to be made—lots of it.”

“Somehow, I can't see you involved in extracting metal from the earth.”

“I won't be. The money is elsewhere. In selling something or providing a haven for men to relax. I have to leave here anyway. Missouri can go either way. I've absolutely no intention of having people shoot at me over slaves, cotton, states rights, or for whatever reason they are fighting. Bullets don't give a damn about your political or moral stance.”

“Of which you have none.”

“Don't become moralistic with me. If you don't like Carson City, there's always San Francisco. We'll have to ship from there. New Orleans is the South and they'll confiscate anything if they suspect it belongs to the Yankees. Damn good thing I hadn't moved everything to Galveston. Once the war is over, we can go there.”

He grinned at her. “Y'all'd like to go back to Texas, now wouldn't y'all?”

Margareatha had her shoulders hunched. “I don't like the idea of Carson City. It's too new. There wouldn't be any decent houses there. Why don't we just go back to Texas? Maybe I can find out what happened to Mama.”

“Why? You know what happened to her, Rita. She's either dead or a bona fide Comanche by now. If you wanted family, you could have gone back to your grandfather's place at anytime. I wouldn't have stopped you.”

“And how would I explain how I have been living or how my clothes can be so expensive? Grandma Johanna didn't want us there before and she wouldn't be any different now. I don't wish to live in a house where I am not wanted and be a drudge.”

“Then it's settled. We'll go west. Alana will be here within the week. Once we've sent the last shipment, I'll head out with it, ostensibly for Texas. I'll tell people I'm going home to enlist with my relatives, but I'll be sailing to South America instead. I want to see what is going on down there. You can take the Butterfield Stage to San Francisco and start looking for places to set up a warehouse and maybe an office for you.”

“If you go to South America, you'll be gone for a year or more. What will Alana do for wheat, corn, flour, sugar, or whatever else you've been shipping?” She suspected that something about the poundage and the amount of money was wrong. Whenever she pressed Red for information, he ignored the question and brought out the book that Alana had given them.

She had read it in its entirety. To her, it was bizarre. Beings identified as Justine came from a planet named Justine and possessed two hearts, mind abilities, the same copper-colored eyes with a golden circle around the pupil, red hair, and lived for five thousand years. The physical description fit them and their father. There was also a planet called Thalia with huge warlike people. They had dark hair, dark eyes, lived about two to three hundred years, and possessed huge sexual appetites. Thalians would fight anyone, man or woman and perform the sex act with anyone, man or woman. There was another planet peopled by a more primitive group called Krepyons. Ayana had been a planet, but the Justines destroyed it and drove them away. The Ayanas were red-haired and brown-eyed and they possessed slaves. All slaves were blonde with blue eyes. Rita wondered what happened if babies were born with the wrong color of hair, but the book was silent on that and so was Alana.

“Damn, that's right, Rita. Right now I can't afford to be gone that long. There is too much to do. Alana may have to do without part of his cargo next time.”

“Which part, Red? What else have you been shipping? The tonnage isn't adding up for the volume and the amount of gold. The gold is accounted for in two sections. The lowest tonnage brings the highest return.”

“It's something they need to survive. Forget it, Rita. You haven't dirtied your hands on anything.”

“And why would they be dirty?”

“The Justines chased the Ayanas out of their part of the universe. They're hiding here. They tried living on Earth, but the native populace wasn't suitable as slaves, plus the natives had the audacity to kill some of the Ayanian people. They fled elsewhere and began to import everything they needed in the way of, uh raw materials.”

“How did you find that out?”

“I went into his mind when he wouldn't answer aloud. That's why it took an extra day last time to finalize everything.”

“And you didn't tell me.”

“What difference does that make? You never asked.”

“And what constitutes 'everything?' ”

Red gave a tight smile. “Nothing that you need to be concerned about as the, uh, shipments don't show on your books.”

Margareatha stood and crossed her arms. “I shouldn't be concerned? I never believed that book like you did. The book said there could not be any cross (as they called it) species children. If that book is true, how can we exist?”

“Obviously, we do. I don't bother with niceties like that.”

“Or any others, right, Red? Most of the 'native people' aren't blonde and blue-eyed, are they? We've been shipping human beings as slaves. They're people, like us!”

“Not like you and me, Rita. We're unique. I've just been shipping a few over-the-hill whores and some completely soused boozers that fit their needs. Those kind of people aren't even missed.”

“No one would miss us, Red. I have to think about this.”

“While you're thinking, you'd better start packing for San Francisco. You'll only be allowed one trunk on the Butterfield stage.”

“It's the finest available!” The man's voice was filled with enthusiasm.

Margareatha eyed the dirty walls, the dirt floor, and the iron stove. The stove was an iron monster with a huge oven and a double rack. She could bake four pies at a time or two pies with one or two pans of yeast rolls.

“I'll take it if one of the other rooms is suitable for a bedroom and one for storage. Is the outhouse decent?”

“Yes, it is. You won't regret this, Miss Lawrence. You'll be making a profit within the week! Tucson needs a fine bakery.” Mr. Alton Beasley was all salesman.

Mama had taught her to bake. The convent put her to work in the kitchen. The nuns might have considered her a heretic, but her rolls and pies they regarded as heavenly. Red had rented a house during the months they weren't on the steamboats gambling and she continued her baking. It was a source of relaxation for her. Sewing she hated. That was hired out.

She had been on her way to San Francisco when the Butterfield Stage pulled into Tucson for a noon meal and change of horses. The man sitting beside her on the stage had been extolling Tucson as the gateway to Mexico and all points north, east, or west. “We've got one of the two operating Post Offices in this part of the Territory.” That mail delivery was spotty he ignored for he had lots and buildings to sell or rent. The man had kept up a running commentary to convince one and all to make Tucson their last stop.

No one had planned to take him up on it, but before they could reboard the stage, the driver announced, “Sorry folks, but we ain't going anywhere until tomorrow. The Apache have to be chased out of the area or move on of their own accord. They've been raiding anything that moves. The driver from Fort Yuma didn't make it. Right now we need another driver in his place and two extra men to ride shotgun. Lodgings can be found in some of the hotels or you all can spend the night here in the chairs. Won't be as comfortable, but it's free.”

“Why ain't the soldiers put 'em to rout?”

“There's one problem with that solution, sir. There aren't any soldiers here. The Territory is still Union since we lost the Battle of Pacacho Pass. Right now we're relying on Arizona Rangers, but they've been busy trying to fight the Union instead of Apaches. The South says they own this territory, but they don't have any troops for here. That's it folks, lessen you all want to go fight the Apaches. Me, I'm going to go have a drink.” The passengers had been left staring at his back.

“People are still coming in here and they need something fresh to gnaw on.” Beasley continued to encourage the sale. “Y'all can set up a fine bakery and be real successful.”

“It's hard to believe a woman could succeed.” Margareatha was torn. She was not happy with Red's schemes. The fact that he was selling people as slaves she found repulsive. It went against everything she had learned from her mother, uncle, and der Pastor. Red had no morals. The only people he seemed to care about were his mother, little sister, and her. She wasn't entirely sure how much he cared about her. She held the secret hope that Mama was still alive and they would be together again. Mama would be bitterly disappointed with her if she did not change. The money she had saved was strapped around her hips beneath the voluminous skirts. It should be more than sufficient.

“You could be successful, ma'am, because men who would be your competitors are fighting for the glorious South. If not the South, they are fighting for the damn Yankees, beggin' your pardon, ma'am—either way they ain't here.

“Fact is that's why I'm offering you this. You mentioned that baking fresh apple pies would be one of the things you'd miss in San Francisco. Well, maybe, they wouldn't be fresh, but I'm told dried apples work well. This was a bakery until the man took off and his sister married and quit. It's lots of work and I don't think she was up to it, but you, ma'am, beggin' your pardon, look just a tad stronger than somebody shorter than most women. You have all this time until tomorrow anyway. If you like it, you can spend the night here and we could finalize everything in less than a week. Tucson's a growing place, ma'am, even with this fight for our Rights going on.”

That Beasley assumed she must be Southern puzzled Margareatha, but then she hadn't bothered to argue with any of them on the stagecoach. It would have been futile for men paid no heed to a woman's opinion and she felt them too dense to understand her reasoning.

Beasley had brought her to the east section of Tucson's main thoroughfare. The town was a strange aggregation of adobe and wooden buildings. The adobe buildings tended to be thick and coated with various colors of paint or whitewash. There were few of the familiar two or three story wood or brick buildings that she could see.

“Why is everything so flat?”

“Why, ma'am, take a look at them mountains.” He waved his arm towards the distance. “In the morning and night they'll look like they've been colored rose or purple. It's an inspiring sight.”

“I wasn't speaking of the terrain, I meant the buildings.”

“It does become a tad warm during the summer months, ma'am. We've found the adobe buildings keep things cool. 'Course they do need fresh mud and paint to keep the rain from crumbling them, but it's a minor point. It can be hot as blazes outside and fine and dandy inside. Wooden buildings just let the heat in and not everyone can afford a slave or two to keep the fans moving

“All you need to do is look. You can see how Tucson is growing. This here's the new part of town, but with so many coming in, not everybody has had a chance to build something. That's why you see some tents, but they're sturdy. Don't need to worry about the wind blowing 'em into your place.” There was more cheer in his voice than Margareatha thought the place warranted.

Like so many of the structures, these walls were thick. On closer examination, she realized the bricks were underneath a thin coat of what? The paint had gone over that.

“What precisely was used to build this place? Is it brick of some kind?”

“Yes, ma'am, it's brick, but that's adobe brick. It's made from the sand and clay of our great natural outdoors. Finest material around.”

“I didn't see any kilns. Where do they fire them?”

“That ma'am is done by our glorious sunshine. It's the best and cheapest way in the world to build a city from the ground up.” Beasley laughed at his own joke.

The tour of the house convinced Margareatha that it was feasible. One room had a small wooden closet and the house could be secured by the heavy pine doors. There were shelves in the third room. She knew she was through with the false night life and cheating other people at cards.

“Very well, Mr. Beasley, as soon as I check the prices on flour, fruit, sugar, and pans we may have a deal.”

“Why not buy it right now, ma'am? Someone else might come along.” Beasley favored her with a broad smile.

“Then I'll continue on to San Francisco. I am not paying you one thousand dollars for this place. It has dirt floors. While I'm looking at prices, I'll also ask about the costs of lots and houses here.”

Beasley's smile faded. He had not expected a woman to behave like a man. He had long ago learned that tall women really wanted to be treated like all other women. Why was this one different?

“What do you think you are doing?” Margareatha took four quick steps across the floor of her bakery and grabbed the youth's arm.

She had stepped into the storage room to retrieve another sack of flour from the chest when a sensation of someone near passed over her. She used her mind and realized someone had entered the bakery without calling out some sort of customary greeting.

The youth swung around, his fist clenched and Margareatha grabbed his arm. The stench coming off of him was beyond belief, his cloths were nothing but rags and his shoes were tied to his feet. His hair was a mass of dark, matted curls stretching down to his shoulders. She realized grey eyes were looking at her out of a face that could have belonged to her mother.

The grey eyes widened as he realized she was taller than he and had a head of thick, red curls. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came as he stared at her face and hair. A sick, puzzled look grew on his face and in his eyes.

Margareatha grabbed his left arm and tightened her grip. “Who are you? Where do you come from? Where have you been?” She realized her tone was too sharp, too harsh, but dear God which one was this? Daniel? Lorenz? It couldn't be Daniel. He would be sixteen and close to full-grown. This one still had smooth, childish skin under the tan.

The grey eyes were blinking at her and still no sound came from his mouth.

She couldn't help herself. She shook him. “Answer me, what is your name?”

The eyes and mouth grew sullen.

“What difference theat make?” The entire sentence was drawn out and slurred.

“Lorenz Adolf, you stop acting like that.”

His eyes widened in surprise and his mouth dropped open. His tongue flicked at his lips and he whispered, “Rity?”

Margareatha swept him into her arms, dirt, sweat, stink, and all. “Oh, Lorenzy, Lorenzy, where have you been? Where's Mama? Daniel? Auggie” She held him at arms length, touching his face in wonderment.

He shook his head. “I dunno. Ain't they hearh? Why didn't yu'all come back fer me?”

“I couldn't. O'Neal locked me up and sent me to a convent in Houston. Didn't the Comanche take you?”

He shook his head no.

“Then how did you live? Where have you been?”

Hardness settled over his face and eyes. “Comancheros.”

Margareatha stared at him. Why would a band of renegades, degenerates from all races, let a child of four live? And horror gripped at her insides. Maybe it was best just to get him cleaned up and fed. Then they could talk.

“Oh, Lorenzy, you need some clothes, a bath. Are you hungry?”

The latter was a silly question and she knew it. He was bone-skinny, his belly sunken.

“Take that loaf you were reaching for and I'll pour you some milk. I was just mixing up the things for tomorrow morning. Then we can get you cleaned up and go buy some clothes. I have to be up early to start baking.”

“Where's Mama?” Lorenz's eyes and mouth hadn't softened.

“O'Neal said the Comanche took everyone.” She noticed he hadn't asked about their father. Could he remember that that cold-hearted man had hated them?

“Then they're dead.” The voice was harsh, flat, and still with that horrible border slur.

“No, no, I don't believe it. Somehow Mama's alive. You have to believe it. I know it.”

For a moment the boy almost swayed in her arms and his eyes closed and then opened. He looked at her in wonderment. “Ah reckon,” he whispered. “How yu'all know theat?”

She couldn't say God told me. All she could do was shrug. “It's something I know. Just like when O'Neal lied to me and then to everybody else, but we can find them. It'll take notifying the army forts, but until this war is over, we'll have to wait. While we are, you can fill out and get some schooling.”

“Why I need schoolin'?”

“Because no one pays any attention to you if you talk like low-down trash. Now you sit at the table and eat that loaf of bread. I'll bring you a bowl of beans from the pot on the stove and I can spare a little milk. You eat that while I mix up the starter. Then we'll get you cleaned up and go buy some clothes.”

“Milk's fer babies.” Lorenz objected, but allowed her to push him into the chair. He hadn't eaten for the three days that he had been traveling alone and his diet had been sparse all month. If Rity wanted to get him clothes that was all right too. It looked like white men wore clothes no matter where they were. He was smart enough to have figured out that white men were regarded as a cut above everybody else. He wasn't sure why for from what he had seen, one color was just as bad as the other.

He tore chunks out of the bread and stuffed them in his mouth. Margareatha came back from the stove with a bowl of beans.

“What are you doing?”

“Mmphing,” came from the overfull mouth.

“You can't eat like that.”

She reached over and picked up her knife. Lorenz pushed back on the chair and stood with fists cocked when he realized she was simply slicing the bread. She wasn't coming after him.

“There, that's how you eat it; one slice at a time with some butter and jam or honey on it.” She looked at him standing there.

This time Lorenz sat down in the chair. If she wanted him in a chair and eating bread one slice at a time as she called it, he could do that. He sat down and picked up the bowl of beans and began to pour them into his mouth.

“Lorenz, not like that. You are supposed to use a spoon. You've forgotten everything.” Her voice was almost a wail and she sank against the table, her legs suddenly weak. How was she to handle this? She would have sat in a chair if she possessed another chair, but she had been thrifty, hoarding her money for an emergency. She knew Mama would want them together, but would Lorenz mind her now? He was at least five foot three or four, almost as tall as most men, and he had always been strong minded as Mama called it.

Lorenz looked at her and something seemed to fill his face and eyes and he swallowed. “We useta sit a table jest like this.” He closed his eyes for a minute. “Yeah, ah had a spoon and would wop the table with it.” His eyes and face transformed as he smiled at her. “See, ah ain't fergot everythang.”