Gather The Children (Chronicles of the Maca Book 2) (10 page)

Later he heard MacDonald roll into the bedding beside him. He knew Rolfe was now on guard, but he hadn't heard MacDonald wake him, or heard Rolfe leave. I must be getting soft, he thought, and stillness closed his mind again. It was safe here and now was the time to rest.

He rested so deeply the soft light of dawn failed to rouse him as it did the others. It was Rolfe banging the coffee pot and building the fire that nudged him awake. MacDonald was pulling on his boots, a grin cutting across the wide face, “Good morrow, laddie, and did ye sleep well?”

Lorenz blinked his eyes against the rapidly expanding light, but did not answer. He forced himself upward and shook his head, clasping and unclasping his hands. MacDonald reached over and undid the rope. Lorenz rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation and tugged his boots on. Young James roared away in the direction of the willows while Martin mumbled, “Guten morgen,” and followed James. Lorenz stood. Except for the needles exploding in his feet, he felt fine. He and MacDonald headed in the same direction as James and Martin. He had to figure out a plan to prevent being tied tonight.

After rinsing their hands in the river, Martin headed towards the camp to fix breakfast, and MacDonald led the way back to the sleeping area. “We twill pack up the sleeping gear,” he commanded.

When they finished storing the articles, Lorenz noticed that Young James was once again searching for cow chips and any dry wood. Martin was busy at breakfast, and Rolfe was resting against one of the wagon wheels. MacDonald indicated a spot for him to sit and Lorenz decided it was time to try his plan.

“What am ah supposed to do, just twiddle my thumbs?” he asked. He hadn't meant for it to sound sassy, but he didn't know how else to start out. Sass wasn't going to get him anywhere with the Big Bastard. “Didn't mean it like that,” he mumbled as MacDonald looked at him. “Ah doan like just sittin' around.” It sounded lame, but it was the best he fish out. “Ah just meant, maybe ah could do somethin' and maybe not cause so much trouble. Hit's been a long time since ah saw Mama,” he finished.

MacDonald's eyes were surprisingly hard. “Are ye tellin' me that ye have had a change of heart?”

Lorenz lifted his chin. “Ah was just wonderin'. Iffen ah did, would things be different?”

“Twould what be different?”

“That's what ah'm askin'. How'd it be different iffen ah follow all of yore rules?”

MacDonald pushed his hat back. “And, of course, ye twill be giving me yere word on this behavior?” he asked softly, the rolling r more pronounced than usual.

“Ah ain't givin' nothin'.” No point in lying when he wasn't going to be believed anyways. “Just wanted to know iffen it would be different. Would there be as many rules?”

“As to different, I canna say. The rules would be the same as tis the way we live. Mayhap ye would even begin to ken why.”

As usual, the Big Bastard wasn't making sense. “Ah mean are yu'll goin' stand over me every time ah fart or take a piss?”

“Ye have such a novel way of putting words together, laddie.”

Lorenz flushed. “Forget it.”

“Nay, bide a moment. Are ye saying ye wish to try being part of this group? Mayhap ye are even glad to be going to the House of yere mither?”

“Well, ah was just, uh, uh, ah mean, just wonderin'.” Lorenz let the words hang. Sometimes it was better to let people put words in your mouth. That way they believed you had said what they wanted to hear.

“And what do ye expect out of this behavior?” The Big Bastard wasn't giving him credit for anything.

“Ah could at least scratch Dandy's nose when he wants me to without being whomped on. Dandy doan know nothin' about rules.”

MacDonald chuckled. “Ye twill push, won't ye, laddie? Very well, go help Martin with breakfast, and I twill dwell on what ye have asked.”

Lorenz let out his breath. He was going to be at his best and by tomorrow night, no one would pay him any heed. He smiled at Martin when he reached the cooking area. “Ah'm supposed to help. What do yu'll want done?”

Martin was shaping biscuits and slapping them in the Dutch oven. “Them spuds need peeled and cut up for fries. We need at least eight or ten.” He pointed to the tailboard let down to serve as a table.

“Right,” responded Lorenz and began carving away. He was on the third one when he heard the heavy footfalls and dropped the knife. Damn, he'd forgotten the stupid rule about weapons, and Big Bastard was sure to consider the knife a weapon.

“Turn and face me,” came the command.

Lorenz took a deep breath and turned, defiance settling into his eyes and mouth. “Ah wuz only doin' what Martin tole me to do,” he protested.

“Walk.” MacDonald pointed toward the wagon.

“That knife wuz part of the gear ah helped clean up last night.”

MacDonald's face remained stern, but something changed in his demeanor. “Then the whiskey dulled my brain more than I thought; however, twas nay my intent to set ye up for a burning. Stand away from the knife now.”

Lorenz moved to the side waiting for the huge fist to lash out at him, not really believing the man would not do something to settle the 'rules' more firmly in his mind. To his amazement, MacDonald picked up the knife and continued to pare the potatoes.

“Martin,” asked MacDonald, “tis there nay else that Lorenz can do?”

Martin had heaped coals over and under the Dutch oven and was busy tending the bacon. “Ja, he can pour off the water on the beans for tonight and fill it with fresh water. I'll put it on when we finish frying the potatoes. Let me know when the spuds are ready.”

The next three days blended into a repeat of the first with Lorenz seated beside Martin and Young James despairing over his demoted status on the long, dusty way toward the ranches. Lorenz knew that Martin once again trusted him, but the Big Bastard continued to watch his every move, nor was he left untied at night. Lorenz planned to make his move on this, the fourth night, and carefully memorized their movements. He knew when and where the two men might put down their rifles or relax their eyes just for a moment. Lorenz didn't worry about Martin and Young James. Martin was not a fighter, and James was like his nickname: young. On the second night they had camped early, giving Martin and Lorenz an opportunity to romp in the water. Later they lazed on the bank before starting supper. Lorenz had expressed surprise that MacDonald was using the soap again. Martin merely laughed. It was then Lorenz realized that Martin didn't bother to figure out other men. Martin would never be a hunter or dangerous man like his father. It would make tonight all that much easier.

Since they had gone through the bacon and eggs, Rolfe would disappear in the late afternoon and return with his kill. Lorenz couldn't figure out how the man could bag an elusive deer or antelope so easily at the wrong time of day. MacDonald, however, seemed to think it natural. After three days of filling his belly, Lorenz knew he was fit to travel.

Lorenz waited until he and Martin were cleaning up from the evening meal. They had stopped later in the day with the thought of reaching their homes tomorrow. Night had blanketed the earth and the moon and stars competed to give light to the shadow time. Rolfe had headed up the small rise of ground towards the road to start his first patrol, and the Big Bastard was busy putting away the improvised oven. As usual Martin had left his rifle wedged by the wagon seat.

Lorenz stacked the tin plates into the Dutch oven to carry them to what was left of the river and use the sand creeping up to the edge as a scouring agent. As he drew even with the wagon wheel, he used his free right hand to pull himself upward, turned, and balanced the Dutch oven on the top of the wheel as he leaned against the wagon and pulled Martin's rifle free.

He dropped to the ground as the Dutch oven and contents clattered down and broke into a run for the horses. Lorenz figured he had less than two minutes to remove the hobbles and bolt.

He figured wrong. Just as he removed the hobbles from Dandy, MacDonald charged into view, a rifle clutched in his right hand. Lorenz scooped up the rifle he had placed at his feet and stood aiming the rifle at the big man's middle.

“Hold it, big man, or y'all are dead!”

MacDonald halted his advance and did not raise his rifle. “Nay, laddie, if ye twere going to shoot me, ye twould have done so from the ground.” He walked at a slow pace toward Lorenz, his voice a low gruff tone as he said, “Ye are going to yere mither and to House just as I told ye.”

Lorenz stood stunned. How could the Big Bastard know he wouldn't kill him? His breathing became intakes of short gulps of air, and the big man reached out and removed the rifle.

“Mac, du should have let me ving him,” Rolfe protested from the darkness.

“Nay, friend Rolfe, he tis my responsibility.” To Lorenz he said, “Replace the hobbles and walk to the front of the wagon.”

Lorenz's stomach lurched downward. That small nagging worry about Rolfe had been right. The man would have shot him as coolly as he killed an animal for meat. Lorenz knew what type of beating MacDonald would administer and the urge to run built again, but at the moment he could think of nothing to do except obey.

As they approached the wagon, Martin hurried towards the river carrying the Dutch oven reloaded with the spilled plates and utensils. “Twill ye need a hand later, laddie?” asked MacDonald.

“No, thanks, Uncle Mac. He'd just make more work.” A tight lipped Martin glared at Lorenz.

On the dark side of the wagon, the two halted their walk. “My belt or yere's?” came MacDonald's gentle inquiry.

Lorenz had his back to the man as he had walked a half-step ahead, certain in his own mind that a fist would send him to the ground at any time. The question left him blank. Belt? Wasn't the man going to use his fists?

When no answer came, he heard MacDonald remove his own belt, and he was pushed against the wagon wheel. “Drop yere britches,” rang in his ears.

His frustration and anger welled to the forefront and he whirled screaming, “No, yu'll are supposed to use your fists and beat me. Ah jest broke yore damn rules and ran, and had a rifle pointed right at yore belly.”

MacDonald looked at the angry youth and shook his head. “Laddie, I canna use my fists on ye. I would damage ye for life as ye are still but a wee one. The burning is to get yere attention, nay harm ye. Ye had the rifle pointed at me and yet ye dinna pull the trigger. Why?”

The anger subsided as Lorenz closed his eyes and reopened them and locked them onto MacDonald's face. “Because it would have been one of the dumbest things ah've ever did.” He swallowed. God, what was this man going to do to him?

MacDonald's face softened. He was looking at a face with eyes so like his Anna's. A half-smile flitted across his face.

“So, I did get yere attention, and ye have been thinking. Laddie, do ye ken ye have just told me what ye did wrong?”

Lorenz felt his world turn over. The man was as crazed as he was, and he still couldn't figure out what was going on. He watched MacDonald put his belt back on. That would mean no whipping. Why wasn't this man like the others he had known?

When no words came from Lorenz, MacDonald tried again. “Laddie, ye are nay a cold-blooded killer. Ye are Anna's laddie, and so much like her. I dinna ken why ye have nay wish to see her.

“Ah kilt Zale and one of his men,” Lorenz forced out.

“Twas a deed needing done. That does nay make ye a killer enjoying the hunt and the ending of another's life.”

Lorenz could think of no response, but he realized the danger of being beat to the ground was over. His mind, his body, however, refused to believe it.

MacDonald kept probing. “Why are ye so set on running rather than return to yere mither?”

The anger came roiling up again, transforming his eyes into two blazing points of grey. “Ah cain't go back,” he screamed at MacDonald. “Y'all don't know the things that happened in that Comanchero camp.”

MacDonald shook his head. “Laddie, Mr. Rolfe and I twere fur trappers. We lived in the wilds with men alone or sometimes with the native peoples in their camps around the trading forts. I ken the depravity that runs in some men's doings. That, however, does nay make ye like them, nay does it prevent ye from returning home.”

“Mama don't want someone like that in her home,” Lorenz grated through his teeth. “She was a praying woman, probably still is.”

“Oh, aye, that she tis, and one of her prayers tis for yere safe return. I canna return without ye.”

Lorenz was staring at the man. Was he crazy? No white woman would let someone like him in their house. He had one last argument. “Mr. MacDonald, ah doan know how to live with people like Mama.”

“Then ye can learn. Twill be like going to a new country, but ye are a clever laddie.” He put his hand out to start Lorenz back to the camp area when Lorenz began slamming his fist into the wagon wheel in frustration. The sheer viciousness of the blows surprised MacDonald as the wheel began to shudder. Instinctively, he grabbed the boy's upheld fist and wrapped his other arm around the shoulders. He stepped in closer and held the shaking body.

For the first time in years Lorenz felt protected and cared for. He almost relaxed and then his body snapped straight and a strangled voice demanded, “Let go of me!”

As MacDonald stepped away the almost disemboweled voice continued. “Don't y'all understand? I killed another one of them bastards. Zale's men had made a big raid, and they had lots of women and booze. Everybody had a woman, but the damn runty half-breed. I was only twelve and he drug me off in the bushes, but I had my knife and I slit his damn throat. It was night and no one was watching. I just stayed hid while the rest of them kept drinking and using the women they had until they passed out.”

“Then I went and got some grub, and some of the money they stole, and took two horses, and skedaddled the rest of the stock, and lit out for anywhere else. That's when all the rest happened I told y'all about. I ended up in Tucson, and after I moved in with Rity, I worked at a livery stable and thought everything was going okay. That's when Mamacita showed up, and Rity let her stay. Then Zale found us. That's when he killed Mamacita and did this to me.” Lorenz ran his finger along the scar. “I don't know how Rity got him out of there, 'cause I don't think her shotgun was loaded. She'd have blasted him if it was.”