Earthbound: Science Fiction in the Old West (Chronicles of the Maca Book 1) (4 page)

“Can you still do that?”

“Why? I dinna wish to rule this world. I want to return home, but I canna do that. So since I must stay, I wish to stay here and own this land to keep the
Golden One
safe till I learn to navigate through the stars.”

He looked at Rolfe. “Did ye wish to see the gold here or above?”

The desire to flee showed in Rolfe's face, but the desire to look, to touch real gold overcame his fears. He took a deep breath. “Here, Mac, if it looks all right, I'll examine it more thoroughly in the sunlight.”

MacDonald set the box down, sat cross-legged, and unlocked it. Then he threw open the lid.

Rolfe sank down to his knees, his mouth open. “Gold,” he whispered. “Mein Gott, gold.” Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had rejected the idea that there would be any gold. People, no matter how advanced, could not produce gold. Alchemists had tried it and all had failed. He drew in his breath and ran his fingers across the top and picked up an ingot to examine it, turning it over and over. He did the same with another piece.

“There aren't any marks.” He looked over at his friend.

MacDonald gave one of his half smiles. “I told ye, nay marks.”

Rolfe's eyes were wide, an avid expression on his face at the sight of all that gold. It was as exciting as a fight.

“You can buy this land, Friend Mac.”

“Aye, that we can. Are ye satisfied?”

Rolfe took a deep breath to relieve the tightness in his chest. “Do we go partners or each of us own a ranch?”

“What do ye wish?”

“It's better we each have our own land, and have our own brand for the cattle.”

“Brand? Oh, aye, the mark to tell the world they are our beasties. Does that need to be settled now?

“Yes, we will need to file that when we file the deeds. If we have it settled now, we won't have to think about it.” Rolfe had forgotten he was deep within the earth. He had always prepared for any contingency. The only things you couldn't control were weather, men bent on murder, or death.

“Do ye have a preference? I can think of nay right now.”

“It must be something that tells the world the cattle and horses belong to you.”

MacDonald grinned, a soft chortle coming from his mouth. “And what, Friend Rolfe, reminds ye of me?”

“A rearing grizzly.”

MacDonald rocked slightly backward and then forward. “Then what do ye think of the Rearing Bear Ranch?”

Rolfe grinned. “Good name, Mac. Now it's your turn. What do you think of when you see me?”

“I think of a bowie knife.”

“I can't name a ranch after a knife. Somebody might think Jim Bowie came back from the dead.”

“How about a knife slash?”

“A brand is static. It doesn't go anywhere except where the cow goes. I can't show a slash. It would be too easy to change.”

MacDonald slapped the lid back down and locked the box.

“All right, how about Crossing Blades?”

“That'll work.” Rolfe grinned at MacDonald. “You know what, Friend Mac? We're both crazy.”

MacDonald and Rolfe strode out of the filing office with Matthew Rutledge, an attorney who had been representing them. MacDonald towered over the six-foot tall Rutledge and the other men on the street. MacDonald and Rutledge were dressed in the suits of the 1840's: heavy dark woolen suits with wide lapels, a double-layered vest over a white shirt with stand-up collar and the properly tied string bowtie. MacDonald wasn't certain whether he would choke or not. It was a wonderment how Earth beings wore undergarments, summer and winter. They put on layers of clothes without showing signs of extreme stress. In the West, men wore boots or the brogan type shoes and they did all manner of exertion in the hot, muggy weather without dropping from heat exhaustion.

Rolfe was still dressed in his buckskins and moccasins. He had adopted a gray, wide brimmed hat during his trader years rather than the fur caps he had worn as a trapper. They had just filed the deed to the Ortega Spanish land grant and their respective brands. The grant had been purchased from the state as Texas had insisted on retaining all public lands before being annexed into the United States. The deed and filing documents were in MacDonald's valise. At the corner of Congress and Pecan Streets they shook hands.

“Thank ye, Mr. Rutledge.”

“My pleasure, Mr. MacDonald. Remember, should you ever need an attorney, we are able to handle all manner of contracts.”

Rolfe cut a chaw of tobacco and nodded at the man. He had let MacDonald carry the bulk of the conversation. People respected Mac, accent or not, but they took his accent for stupidity or labeled him as Dutch. The latter had ended in fights at times. He had no reason to antagonize this man, and so he let any misconception continue.

“Now we need to take those legal papers to a safe place,” he said once they were alone on a street crowded with wagons, surreys, and men in business suits hurrying from one location to another. “Then we need to celebrate, but damn if I can think of a safe place where we both can celebrate at the same time.”

“Neither can I.” Both spoke in German on the theory that fewer people would understand them. “I suggest we eat and then ride out of town before we decide how to do this. We need to go to Arles next and hire a surveyor. Perhaps we can toss a coin to determine who celebrates this evening. We can dine quite well before we decide.”

“I have a better idea. We celebrate when we get back to St. Louis. Then I can set Frau Rolfe's mind at ease and explain that we will be moving in a year or two. She has enough money until we get there. We aren't expected back until spring.”

“There is one thing I wish to do before starting back.”

Rolfe looked at his friend. MacDonald's face was set and he was staring straight ahead.

“And what would that be, Mac?”

“I need to visit a whorehouse, a respectable one. If you wish to celebrate this evening, I'll guard our deeds and the remaining funds. I will wait until tomorrow evening.”

Rolfe considered. Living with a native woman a few months while trapping, never bothered his religious beliefs. The tribe didn't consider the arrangement immoral if he left enough trade goods and meat for the family, but he had avoided whorehouses. He was married and whores usually harbored a disease. He did not wish to take that back to Clara. MacDonald had visited houses when flush, but for some reason never seemed to contact one of the diseases, not even clap.

“Why don't we both go to the whorehouse? I'll have a drink while you finish your business and then we can ride out and take turns guarding each other.”

“You might be drunk by the time I finish. I intend to visit every whore in the establishment, perhaps more than once.”

“That's a pipe dream, Mac. No man can do that.”

They entered their hotel and collected their belongings for the trail. The stables were a few blocks away, set among a wainwright, a blacksmith, tanners, and lard merchants. The stench was everywhere, but no one seemed to notice anymore than they noticed the grey air drifting over the city from people cooking with wood or coal.

A few blocks away from the stable, they stopped at a large restaurant where men wearing suits were seen entering and leaving. They ordered steaks and hash browns with gravy. Both ordered beer.

“I have heard they have seafood and much fancier houses down in San Antonio or Galveston.” MacDonald's voice had a longing in it.

“We don't have time to go that far. What's the matter with you Mac? You're acting like you want to fling away everything we just gained.”

MacDonald attacked the steak trying to find words to explain to his friend that frontier food was not Thalian food. How could he explain the Thalian need for the caress of another being or how emotions transferred physically and mentally between Thalians? Every bedding with a prostitute had left that need unfulfilled and a steady fire had grown inside of him. He had never had his First Bedding rite, although Leta, an older female from Donnick's Enforcers had taken pity on him and instructed him in certain matters while granting him a bedding. When he returned he would reward that lassie if she still lived.

When no good words emerged, he changed the subject. “I'll camp tonight, but tomorrow I am going to the whorehouse Rutledge recommended.”

“All right, Mac. We go there together tonight. I'll have a drink and wait for you.”

“It will take me awhile.”

Rolfe snorted and downed his beer. “You're crazy, Mac.”

Madame Collette smoothed her brown hair and slid her hand down her maroon faille dress. She slipped a heavy pearl necklace over her head and smiled at the round face in the mirror before entering the lobby of her domain. She nodded at Doris arranging the glassware and whiskey bottles. Twilight had begun and her girls were in place awaiting her inspection, each deliberately posed in their most alluring position. She studied Suzette as she checked them. This would be Suzette's last season here. She was getting too old. Worse, it looked like the woman was pregnant again. She shook her head. Too damn stupid to use the correct douche. She nodded at the maid to unlock the front door. She could see two looming shapes outside. This might be a good evening for midweek if someone were here this early.

Doris opened the door with a beaming smile and two men crossed the threshold. The huge form of one made some of the smaller girls suck in their breath. There were times when such men could rip the insides of a petite woman. At least he was well dressed. The other man was dressed in buckskins. Not a good sign for someone with money to drop.

Madame Collette tried to gauge whether to ask that they leave or accommodate them. The large man solved the problem by removing his hat, bowing, and speaking in French.

“Good evening, Madame Collette. Mr. Rutledge recommended this as a refined place to visit before leaving your fair city. It seems you have those that will please a man and your drinks received almost as much praise.”

Madame forced a smile to her lips. The girls be damned, she thought. Rutledge was her link to the law. This man was entitled to anyone in the place.

“If we both could have a drink, I'll make my selections.”

“Selections, monsieur?”

The dark eyes smiled down at her. “Aye, I'll select two now and more as the evening progresses.” He had reverted to English.

Madame Collette stared for a moment and gave a low chuckle.

“I like a man who knows what he wants. The fee is twenty-five dollars per room.” In her establishment, it was the room that was rented not the female. “Since you are selecting two, it would be two rooms. It is a bit difficult to be two places at once. Do you intend to spend the evening? Then it becomes one hundred dollars.”

MacDonald's smile was becoming a bit fixed. “Tis there a time limit on the two rooms?”

“Only if you spend the evening, then, as I said, the fee is one hundred dollars for each room. One room could be empty, of course, if that is what you prefer. We do make our gentlemen feel quite at home here.”

Relief flooded MacDonald's face. “Of course, the fee changes with each selection. Tis that nay correct?”

The girls were twittering in the background. Madame could see someone else's shape at the door and the knocker clanged.

“Doris, admit the gentleman.”

She turned to MacDonald. “That is correct.”

“Then for now I twill take the two tallest. I should be back down in about two hours.”

“Wouldn't you prefer a drink first, or one to take with you?” She thought this a most curious way to choose.

“Nay for myself, but friend Rolfe twould like one.” He pulled out his bills and added a nickel for Rolfe's beer. He then looked at the young women for none were over twenty-four.

He nodded at two of them and they rose and went to him. Somehow he knew this would not fulfill the desire raging in him, but the physical could no longer be denied. At least his Elder Lamar had instructed him and Leta had more than taught him. They ascended the stairs.

True to his word, MacDonald returned in about two hours. By now the room was filled with cigar smoke, men talking loudly, the smell of alcohol floating about the room, and fewer women. Most of the men were waiting for a certain woman to return. Several men had started a poker game. The Madame did not mind. They bought drinks more frequently and added to her profit. MacDonald selected two more and sighed at their short stature. He bought Rolfe another beer. Rolfe raised his eyebrows. It was now after nine o'clock.

Two hours later he returned. That had been time enough for the first two females to spread the tale of an incredible lover who was capable of more than once without assistance. Both were hoping to be chosen again. Rolfe was trying to guard their valise and not fall into a slumber when MacDonald went back up the stairs with two more.

It was enough to make Rolfe sit upright. He decided to join in the poker game. The men looked tired and they had definitely downed more booze than he had. Rolfe laid down his gold piece and was accepted. They knew they were sharp business men. What could a buckskin-clad frontiersman know?

At one fourteen in the morning MacDonald walked down the stairs again. By this time the lobby was almost deserted except for a very drowsy Rolfe. Madame Collette was pacing back and forth.

“Will you be choosing another? I have but two left who are not engaged for the evening.”

MacDonald looked at the two. They were but mere slips of womanhood, barely standing an even four feet. He shook his head.

“Nay, they are far too wee. I might injure them. If I may have my hat, please?”

“Of course, Mr. MacDonald, and may I say this has been one of the more interesting evenings of my life.” She motioned to Doris to bring his hat. “You have given us something to dwell on for many an evening. Please come back at any time.” She did not address her remarks to Rolfe. He had managed to upset two of her better customers by winning their evening funds.

Doris handed him his broad brimmed hat and he handed her a nickel, bowed to the Madame, and walked out the door with Rolfe. Once the door was closed, they untied their horses and mounted.

“I heard dem vimen say du fucked two times for each visit. Dat true?”

“Aye, I did that.”

“Do du know vhat, Mac. Du ain't human.” He swung his horse out into the empty street.

The darkness hid MacDonald's smile, but inside he still hungered. He had made up for the physical fire raging within, but the mental and emotional transfer had been missing. It was something the beings on this planet lacked.