Gather The Children (Chronicles of the Maca Book 2) (3 page)

“Y'all git her out of there?” Curiosity about her well-being forced the words to spill out.

“Aye, that we did. Then I took her to yere eld, er, uncle's place. He twas in Texas searching for her. There tis a bond twixt twins that nay can break.”

“She's okay then?” Lorenz felt compelled to ask. Inside he was reeling. Uncle, what uncle? He couldn't remember any uncle. And his ma was double born. Some held that unnatural. “Why cain't ah just go to my ma's and uncle's then?”

The words came softly from the big man. “Ye are going home to yere mither. Nigh seven years hence, Mrs. Anna Lawrence did me the honor of becoming my wife and counselor.”

Lorenz felt the sickness rise inside. His ma was married to this lout. Gawd. He looked at MacDonald and knew that within hours he would have the shit beat out of him or worse. No, mustn't think about worse. He had to get away, but to run now was stupid. All he could do was glare at the man and wish him dead.

The voice continued, low words rumbling out of the deep chest. “We have a wee lassie, but nay a laddie. There twas one, but he died within a few minutes of birthing. Yere mither has claimed all these years that ye, Margareatha, and Daniel still lived.” He paused to give Lorenz a chance to speak and when no words came, he continued.

“From now on, ye twill call me Mr. MacDonald, and ye twill answer aye, sir, and nay, sir, to my questions. The same holds for when ye speak with Mr. Rolfe or any other man back there.”

“Why?” demanded Lorenz.

MacDonald leaned backward and smiled down. “Because tis one of my rules and ye twill nay disgrace me or yere mither with yere tongue.”

“What the hell does she have to do with my talkin'?”

“Dear Gar, where have ye been? Did yere sister nay teach ye about civilized behavior?”

The boy looked at him and grinned a quick, sardonic slash. If his ma was like that, it was his ticket out. MacDonald wouldn't dare take him home. “Ah weren't with Rity the whole time. Zale's Comancheros picked me up, and ah lived with them for years. Ah ran away when ah wuz old enough. Y'all cain't take someone like me back. Ma don't want me anyhow. She wants Daniel.”

“Ye twere with Zale?” MacDonald was surprised. “What of yere sister? Did they have her too?”

“Naw, some Injun horse came through where we wuz hidin' in the cornfield. Rity always could ride anythin'. Still can. She got on and rode to O'Neal's place for help.”

“Damn!” MacDonald exploded, and he eyed the youth in front of him. Which question should he ask first and would he receive an honest response? “Why did they let a wee laddie like ye live? Ye twere nay of any use to them.”

“Zale's woman found me. She'd just lost a kid and needed someone to suckle. Zale let her keep me.”

“And what happened to Margareatha?”

“She got to O'Neal's okay, but the bastard locked her up and then sent her to some Catholic nunnery down in San Antonio.”

“So, O'Neal twas lying. I kenned I should have gone with Rolfe and Kasper.” MacDonald clenched his fists. “Damn, all these years wasted.”

“Huh?”

“Yere Uncle Kasper and Mr. Rolfe went twice to O'Neal's place trying to find ye and Margareatha. O'Neal insisted that the Indians had taken yere elder brither, yere mither, and young Augustuv and that ye and yere sister twere dead. He claimed to have heard rumors that yere fither had arranged for the attack. He showed them the two graves that supposedly held the dead from the attack.” explained MacDonald.

“It did nay make sense to Rolfe and me. Yere fither had red hair. The Comanche twill avoid a man or woman with red hair. Either he did deal with the Comanche or he ran.”

MacDonald looked at Lorenz. “Since ye twere with Zale, did ye kill the O'Neal living in Wooden?”

“Naw, I wanted to, but he had me chained up 'cause he and his brother figured out who I was when ah went there looking for ma. Red had followed me from Carson City and made him let me loose, and Red said he wuz taking me back to Rity, but he got drunk one night, and I gave him the slip.” Lorenz finished the tale without telling why O'Neal drank too much.

To MacDonald it was an amazement what the lad could tell and what he must have omitted from the telling. “Where twas he takin' ye?”

“Back to Rity in Carson City.”

“How did she get there from San Antonio?”

“Red helped her run away from the nunnery. She wound up in Tucson running a bakery.” Lorenz figured he'd better leave out the before part about her and Red gambling on the riverboats.

“How did ye get there?”

“Zale was close to there when I ran away, and Rity recognized me when I wuz looking for food.”

“Why did ye nay stay there?”

“Zale's woman ran away too and wuz with me in Tucson. She wuz pregnant agin and couldn't take that life no more. Zale followed her and kilt her. I tried to stop him, and he did this.” Lorenz touched the scar. “Rity had to pay for the doctor to fix me and to pay for it she started singing in the saloons.”

“Ye Gods!”

“Yeah, so y'all cain't tell Mama about Rity and where she is. Women like Mama pull their skirts away and spit at her, if they dast.” He looked at MacDonald, his own face flushed with triumph. MacDonald's face showed his words had had their desired effect.

MacDonald took a deep breath and continued his questioning. “Ye still have nay said why ye both left Tucson.”

“Red wuz in Carson City, cause of the War. He weren't about to get kilt and the South couldn't make him put on a uniform. He needed help with his cathouses and sent for Rity.”

“She works there?” MacDonald's voice sunk to a horrified whisper. If ere his counselor had reason to hate the O'Neal's, she would be in a fury when she heard this tale.

“Naw, she does his books, but she's got her own gambling place.”

MacDonald's eyes took on a humorous glint. Somehow it seemed possible. “And why did ye nay stay?” he asked.

“'Cause Rity made me mad by whuppin' me. Ah just left. Ah had to get even with Zale anyway.”

“'Tis that why ye went looking for yere mither first?” probed the gentle, rumbling voice. Baffled, the boy clamped his lips shut.

“Now that ye have told yere tale, ye can listen to me. We are going back in there and finish our business. Before we do, ye need to ken the rules for the way ye twill be living.”

He paused, his eyes locking with Lorenz, neither giving way. “One, yere name tis Lorenz Adolf Lawrence. Two, ye twill nay be using the vile words to me, yere mither, nay any adult. Three, when I give an order, ye do it, but if any of my orders should puzzle ye, ye have the right to ask why and ye have the right to remind me that I have given ye this right. Ye have the right to learn and to grow the way the good Gar intended, but if ye cross me, I'll drop yere britches where ye stand and use a belt on yere backside.

The boy opened his mouth to protest, but MacDonald cut him off. “The first time ye disobey, twill only be five counts with the belt. Each time ye disobey thereafter, I'll increase the count by one. By the time I reach ten, ye had best learn to count. Any questions?”

By now anger was surging through Lorenz. He swallowed bitter words mixed with bile. This adversary was too large. He needed time to think, to plot, and to run again. He shook his head to indicate no questions.

MacDonald smiled. “Tis welcomed ye are then, in our hearts and our House. Now, let us go back.”

The office was heat-hot from the extra bodies: everyone sitting or standing and waiting for more excitement. Franklin had half-hoped Rolfe would have taken his grown cub and leave, but, no, the Dutchman just stood there daring any to ask him to leave. Franklin, like most Americans, heard Deutsch as Dutch and rarely made the correct country connection.

The boy came in first, face set and jaw tightened. MacDonald had evidently rough broke him. MacDonald nodded at Rolfe and the assembled audience, but he spoke directly to Franklin.

“Are we in agreement that the laddie goes home with me, and I send the telegram to Mr. O'Neal, sparing the county the expense?”

Franklin would have liked to reject MacDonald's offer. Reality, however, was the small jail he ran had no extra room, and since the South's capitulation, money for rations was nonexistent. If the present United States judge found out the gold taken in the robbery and death of O'Neal involved Confederate gold, the man might not consider it a crime at all.

“All right, MacDonald, but if I find out that there is a valid warrant, I'll be out after him.”

“Aye,” MacDonald nodded again. “Good day, gentlemen.”

“Ah want my guns.” Stubbornness slashed through the voice as Lorenz protested.

MacDonald looked at Franklin. “We'll take them with us.”

Rolfe picked up the arsenal and moved towards the door. MacDonald clamped his hand down on the boy's shoulder, gently nudging him on his way. “Ye are nay to touch a weapon for a while.”

Lorenz breathed deep and looked longingly at his guns and knives, then shrugged. Outside they paused for MacDonald to introduce the young man who had stood at the back. “Lorenz, this tis Young Rolfe. Martin tis his given name. Martin, this tis Lorenz, Anna's laddie.”

Martin extended his hand, blue eyes beaming welcome and in a firm, baritone voice said, “Good to finally meet y'all, Lorenz.”

Startled, Lorenz shook his hand. Martin appeared to be a couple years older than he, a blond, younger version of Rolfe without the mustache and teeth browned by chewing tobacco.

“My poys und me vill get some eats.” Rolfe pointed to Young James up on the wagon seat. The wagon was a sturdy rectangle made of fading, once painted, green slabs of wood, and a solid unimaginative design. Rolfe stored the weapons in a locked box in the back of the wagon and he and Martin climbed aboard. “Meet du in front of Stanley's place.”

“Aye, friend Rolfe. Lorenz, we go this way.” MacDonald waved toward the section of town where the freight station stood.

“We're gonna walk?” Lorenz couldn't believe it. A cattleman walking instead of riding was not natural. He had seen a huge riding horse; one of the two horses tethered to the wagon, and figured it had to be MacDonald's. It was an animal big enough for him.

“Aye, we twill come back for yere horse.”

Lorenz fell in step rather than be dragged or propelled along. There was still no way out as there were far too many people, and why the hell was Martin glad to meet him?

“Ah ain't neveh goin' to see that gold, am ah?”

“Who kens? Mayhap in a few weeks.”

“Huh, an' iffen it does come, who gets it, y'all?”

“Nay, twill be yeres.”

Lorenz didn't believe him, but didn't argue. They passed people hurrying to be done with their chores before the midday heat. Women would draw away and wrinkle their noses. Lorenz seemed oblivious to their behavior, but he knew they were afraid of him. Afraid, just like his ma would be when she saw him again. Why the hell was this big bastard taking him there? For Lorenz, it was enough to know that she was alive and safe. Then again, maybe she wasn't safe; not with this big bastard beating on her. Maybe he should swing by there once he got away.

A huge blue star hung over the freighting office, proclaiming to one and all that this was the Blue Star line. The blue star identified the office as the town's reason for being. Men were constantly going in and out with orders to be filled, teams to be tended, harnesses repaired, the shifting, stacking, and re-routing of trade goods. This part of the country's network of merchandise distribution was as yet undisturbed by railroads. Freight was hauled in from every major point by wagons, mules, and men. The building housed the merchandise, wagons, loading docks, separate quarters for the teams and men, and in the office, the indispensable telegraph. Town women had agitated for the telegraph to be moved to a more genteel location, but economics kept the telegraph were it was needed.

“Hallo, Mac,” said the man at the desk. He was long, lanky, dark haired, and mustached. Whatever animosity the town felt towards Yankees, this man didn't. Business was business. “Y'all planning to carry your goods home now?”

“Nay now, but in a bit, Andrew, it tis your communications I'm needing this time.”

“My what?”

“The telegraph,” explained MacDonald. “I find it tis necessary to send two. Ye can get messages to Carson City, Nevada, aye?”

“Sure thing. I heard y'all and Rolfe had brought in a herd. Prices any better for beef?”

“Bah!” A deep rumble issued from the throat. “If we nay had the contract, they would have screwed us as badly as any that wore the grey. As tis the money twill buy beans. Andrew, this tis Lorenz. Lorenz, Mr. Andrew.”

Andrew nodded at Lorenz and shoved a piece of paper to MacDonald. “Howdy, young man.”

Lorenz nodded and watched MacDonald bend and scrawl lines across the sheet. He finished with a flourish and looked at Lorenz. “Does yere sister have an address?”

Lorenz shook his head. “Then what about O'Neal? Does he have an address?”

“He owns the Sportin' Palace, or did when ah left.”

MacDonald sighed and shook his head. “Andrew, the first goes to Miss Margareatha Lawrence, General Delivery, the other to Mr. Red O'Neal, owner, Sporting Palace.”

“I'll read them back just to make sure there's no error.” Andrew's face showed no emotion as he read. “Miss Margareatha Lawrence. Stop. Lorenz is safe with us. Stop. A letter from your mother, Mrs. Anna MacDonald, nee Schmidt will follow. Stop. Mother rescued eight years ago. Stop. Zebediah L. MacDonald

“Next one,” continued Andrew. “Mr. Red O'Neal, Sporting Palace. Stop. Marshal Franklin of Arles, Texas needs your confirmation that Patrick O'Neal was alive when Lorenz left with you two years ago. Stop. Marshal has family poster. Stop. Speed is important. Stop. Zebediah L. etc.” Andrew looked at MacDonald.

“Aye, twill do.”

“That'll be five dollars for the two.”

“Tis dear.” MacDonald dug down in his trousers and extracted a coin.

“At least it gets there,” replied Andrew. “Y'all going to pick up everything for Schmidt's Corner?”

“Nay, just the liquor barrels for friend Rolfe and myself. Twill be another hour or so ere we're back,” answered MacDonald and tipped his hat at Andrew. He and Lorenz stepped outside and walked back towards the Marshal's office.

Lorenz was trying to devise an escape plan. Maybe he could race the man and jump on Dandy and be gone. He tensed. The crowd wasn't much and big man probably couldn't move too fast.

“If ye are thinking of bolting, dinna. And when we are at the wagon, ye dinna touch yere mount.”

“Why?”

“Tis another of my rules.”

Lorenz sulked. The man's rules were becoming tedious. This was just like being with his sister. And how the hell did he know what he had been planning?

MacDonald untied the reins and led the way to the wagon now parked in front of the general store called Stanley's Dry Goods and Sundries. The wagon's faded green slabs were hung with water barrels and nose bags. The team of part Morgan and some other lineage stood with heads bowed and tails swishing at the gathering flies. MacDonald tied Dandy's reins to one of the hoops at the back and pulled down the tailgate revealing an interior lined with boxes. “Now we'll have a look at yere stash. Ye can take off yere saddle and bags as they'll go in the wagon. Ye'll be riding with Martin on the seat.”

“Like hell!”

“Laddie, I am being patient. Take off that saddle,” MacDonald commanded.

Lorenz stared at him. “Why cain't ah ride?”

“Lorenz, if ye dinna wish yere britches down now in front of all of these people, ye twill do as I have said.” MacDonald's r was rolled into three in his pronunciation.

Lorenz yanked at the cinches. Outright rebellion was futile. He would wait for a better time. He half-threw, half-slammed the saddle onto the wagon bed. MacDonald's eyes glinted, but he knew he had won.

“Now, let's see what ye have.”

The contents of the saddlebags were slim. There was no food and no tobacco. MacDonald held up a pair of canvass jeans and critically eyed the lad before him.

Lorenz flushed. “Ah grew. Ah would have traded 'em, but no time.”

“Tis this all the clothes that ye have?”

“That's it.”

MacDonald shook his head and extracted the remaining items: a thin blanket, a tin plate and a spoon. The implements he put into the chuck box and left the blanket in the saddle bags. Then he shoved the saddle against the sidewall.

“Since all the clothes that ye have are on ye, we twill go shopping.”

“Why?”

“I canna take ye back to your mither with nay but those clothes.”

Lorenz was puzzled, but then realized that his mother was going to have opinions about what he wore similar to Rity's ideas. MacDonald's voice rumbled on.

“Walk.” He pointed to the doorway in front of them.

“We ain't eatin'?” There was real regret in Lorenz's voice.

“Aye, ere long.”

The inside of the store offered relief from the sun's gathering strength, but there was no breeze and the air was beginning to resemble a modern sauna. The smells of pickles, brown earth still clinging to potatoes, coffee, spices, dyes from the few new clothes and polished boots assailed the nose. A slender, balding man of about forty nodded at them. Stanley would have preferred to ignore the huge man, but like the rest of the town, he knew that the damn Yankees had delivered a herd to the cavalry stationed outside the town. If necessary, Captain Richards would enforce the sale.

The bile rose in Stanley at the thought of MacDonald and Rolfe, two of the few people with cash money in their pockets in June of 1865, walking around and not hung or tarred and feathered. The soothing proclamations of the provisional governor notwithstanding, the War had left the South bereft of valid currency. He knew that both men would buy most of their goods from MacDonald's brother-in-law at Schmidt's Corner. “Anything ah can do for y'all?” His offer was perfunctory, his voice cool and aloof.

Amusement lurked in MacDonald's voice as he answered, “Aye, the laddie needs a pair of boots.” Inside, the big man was shaking with laughter as Stanley's eyes lit up. “Plus two pair of socks as the missus twill knit more.” No need to raise the man's expectations too high. “And a pair of britches,” he concluded.

To Lorenz he asked, “Do ye have a slicker?”

Lorenz shook his head. “Answer and say it right,” MacDonald's voice rumbled out at him.

Lorenz quit gawking at the meager goods laid out on the table, flushed, threw a baleful glance at the big man and spat out, “No, suh.”

“Mayhap that can wait. It does nay seem ready to rain for a while, but twill need a shirt.”

“Will Mrs. MacDonald be needing any material for new shirts?” asked Stanley, a note of expectation crept into his voice.

“Nay, she still has a bolt from her last shopping trip, howe'er, once we have selected a pair of boots and some clothes, twill need a few supplies for the extra mouth.” He turned toward the end wall and the rack of boots. They were all crudely made, and all the same color: black. The boots were made to fit either foot and so fit neither. MacDonald had his own boots cobbled as none such as these would fit him. He longed for the day when they could afford a tailor, and his wife would no longer need to make all of his clothes.

Stanley, ever the salesman, selected two of the boots and handed them to MacDonald with a flourish. “Finest pair in town.”

MacDonald held them alongside one of Lorenz's feet. It was impossible to tell if they would fit or not. Lorenz's current boots were slashed at the side to allow for feet that had outgrown the pair he wore.

“Lorenz, take off yere boots and try these on.”

He turned to Stanley. “Ye might as well give us a pair of those socks so that he twill have them on when we buy the boots. I dinna want the boots to fit without the socks.”

Stanley raised his eyebrows. “Why not, is he still growing?” He was curious as to which of the lost children this one would be.

“Nay doubt he twill. He tis but fifteen, and already he tis as tall as his mither.”

Lorenz looked at his stepfather with a puzzled frown. No woman he'd ever seen was that tall except Rity. He took the socks from Stanley and slowly dragged them on while searching in his mind for some remembrance of his ma.

He remembered her towering over him enraged, grey eyes flashing, her lips drawn in a tight line, “Nein, nein. Du must not!” He must have always had the ability to make people mad. He looked up to see MacDonald ruefully regarding the unclad foot. At least the big bastard didn't say anything about the toenails and dirt clinging everywhere and he hurriedly pulled on the other sock.

After comparing the new boots with the old pair, MacDonald asked, “Have ye grown in the last few months?”

Lorenz shrugged. “Some, ah reckon. My shirt got too small and had to…” He stopped short and began tugging vigorously on the new boot. No need to tell MacDonald that he'd taken the shirt from someone's clothes line. Instinct told him that MacDonald would want to pay somebody for it even if the price came out of his own hide.

MacDonald watched the fight with the boot and said to Stanley, “We best see the next size.”

This pair proved to be a tad wide, but the selection of sizes had ended. “Twill do,” sighed MacDonald. “Now we need a shirt and a pair of summer drawers and vest.”

Lorenz was horrified. “Ah gotta put those on? Hell, it's hot out there.”

“Ye need nay wear them right now.” The voice was patient, half amused at his distress.