Gather The Children (Chronicles of the Maca Book 2) (5 page)

The snot-nosed kid dashed up with another pail of beer and Rolfe held the empty for filling. Then the kid ran off for the freight depot again. He knows where his customers are in the heat of the day, thought Lorenz. He could see James hopping up and down inside the store, impatiently waiting for Martin to make his selection and pay Stanley. The guy in the store sure knew where the money was and it weren't no kid.

Rolfe swigged at his beer and shot Lorenz a glance. “Du thirsty?” he offered.

Lorenz shook his head. That Baptist preacher he heard once must have been right. The Dutch could drink all day and think nothing of giving it to their kids. He wondered if he should say anything about the slow skinning and thought the better of it.

Martin stepped out of the store, a grin cutting across his face. He swaggered over to the wagon and opened his package for them to see. “Now by golly, I've got a good shirt for when the Pastor comes, or we have doings in town.” The white, collarless shirt lay on the brown wrapping, stiff and unnatural in its folded pleats. “The next time we come here, I'll buy the collar to go with it,” he finished.

“Vat's vrong mitt the shirts Olga sews?” asked his father.

“They're always the same, either blue like this one, or red flannel for winter. I get tired of it.” Martin grinned at Lorenz. “Olga sews real good, she just don't know what a young man needs. She still thinks I'm ten years old.” He rewrapped the shirt and scooted up on the wagon bed to put the package in the same box MacDonald had dropped his goods in. “Olga's my sister.” He finished by slamming the lid down and dropping to the ground by his father.

Young James came flying out of the store, a paper bag firmly clenched in one sun-tanned hand and the other hand holding his hat against a sudden breeze. He clambered up beside Lorenz, his jaws furiously working a taffy ball inside his mouth. He made a show of setting the bag between himself and the wagon. Rolfe ignored them and continued drinking.

“What 'cha got, James?” asked Martin with a wink at Lorenz.

“It ain't…” started James.

“Don't say ain't,” admonished Rolfe.

“Isn't for you,” finished James. “It's all mine.”

“Hoo, what a fine Christian y'all are! Y'all won't even share with your brother,” taunted Martin. “I'll bet y'all don't even save one for Olga.”

James flushed. The taunt about not being a Christian upset him. “I saved a penny for the collection plate when Pastor comes, and maybe I'll save a candy for Olga, but just her. Besides, you still got money.”

Lorenz picked up the empty peach can with the drops of the juice and milk puddling in the bottom. He knew James was being teased, but he couldn't figure who the Pastor fellow was. He sounded important to these people. And why wasn't James supposed to say ain't? He figured they were talking English, but the elder Rolfe's English wasn't making much more sense than MacDonald's brand of speech. He made a show of drinking the liquid and smacking his lips. “Y'all want some?” he asked Martin.

Martin's blue eyes lit up. He made sure James saw the peaches stamped on the can, threw back his head, and pretended to drink. “By damn that's good!” He too smacked his lips. “Uncle went and put some milk in it.” He grinned at James. “I'll bet Lorenz will trade you for some of the candy.”

Green envy fought on James's face, twisting the features and lighting up his eyes with hope. Then determination stilled the desire. “I'm not drinking after you two,” he declared. He popped a red ball in his mouth and worked it as deliberately as he had the taffy. “Besides, if Uncle Mac had any, it's all gone.”

Rolfe was laughing in short snorts. “Und that's vhy he'll be a Pastor someday. Du can tempt him, but by golly he's got brains.”

Martin shrugged, totally unconcerned that a ten-year-old had refused the bait. MacDonald appeared and handed a dainty package to Martin. For Lorenz, it was the beginning of an active dislike of the younger Rolfe.

“Would ye put that in the box, Martin?”

“Ja sure,” said Martin. He stood and placed the package with the others.

“And ye, laddie,” continued MacDonald, “can join Martin up on the seat.”

Lorenz set his jaw, looked up at the man and shrugged. He had lost the argument about riding Dandy earlier. He followed Martin, not noticing the disappointment on young James's face.

“Do I have to ride back here, Papa?” asked James.

“Ja,” replied Rolfe as he and MacDonald pushed up the wagon gate and secured it.

“Mayhap ye can ride with me later.” MacDonald smiled at the boy.

“Where to first?” Martin yelled down. “The lumber yard?”

“Aye.” MacDonald and Rolfe mounted their horses, swinging out on either side of the wagon.

Martin gathered the reins and snapped them. “Hi-yi-yup,” he shouted to the horses and as a warning to any coming behind them.

Lorenz wondered whether the two men were guarding him or the wagon. Hell, they had just sold a herd. One or both of them had money, or maybe it was in the wagon. Maybe he shouldn't be in such a hurry to leave. Martin or James ought to know where it was hid. He glanced back at James who promptly stuck out his tongue. Gonna get you, boy, thought Lorenz.

“What ails him?” he asked Martin, jerking his thumb back at James.

“Ach, he's mad because y'all have got his seat.” Martin's speech would forever be a cross between the German utterances of his parents and the drawl of Texas.

“Hell, he can have it for all ah care.”

“He don't know that.” Martin threw a quick glance at Lorenz. “It's his first time to town, and the first time working with us. He was helping with the driving and cooking. He wants to be real important and ride up on the seat, not in the back like the baby. Y'all spoiled that.”

“How many head y'all drive in?”

“Three hundred.”

Lorenz whistled. “Just the three of y'all drive that many?”

“Yeah, that's all it takes. We're just in town now to pick up supplies.” He turned the team to the left.

The right side of the street was occupied by two sporting houses. A few of the women were leaning out of the windows for air and to hustle business for later. Like the buildings, they badly needed paint to make their pale faces attractive. Usually the whores moved from town to town, or state to state, but the war had interfered with movement, and now there was no place to go, and no one to send them.

One buxom blonde leaned way out and waved before yelling, “Hey, big man, we ain't seen y'all in years. Why y'all been staying away and depriving us of your charms?”

MacDonald was riding easily; one hand gripped the reins, his left arm akimbo as the hand rested on his hip. He looked up, white teeth showing, “Ye twill have to forget me, darling. I'm a wedded man with a wee bairn.”

The blonde hooted. “Hell, that didn't stop your friend. He was in last night.”

MacDonald roared. Martin's face flushed. Rolfe grinned and spat. Lorenz looked to see how young James was reacting. The kid was busy praying while he choked back tears.

“That ain't true,” Martin muttered. “Mama's dead. When she was alive, it did stop him.” That his father would keep an Indian woman for a season of trapping whether his wife lived or no never occurred to Martin.

“Then why's he praying?” Lorenz was curious.

“Because he's going to be a pastor.” Martin slapped the reins to keep the horses moving. Lorenz knew he'd been given an explanation, and obviously a pastor was like a job that had something to do with praying. The idea of marriage keeping men out of a whorehouse, however, sure didn't fit with anything he knew.

“Well, iffin yore Ma's dead, what's wrong with yore Pa goin' there?” he asked.

“It's still a sin.” Martin's voice implied amazement at his ignorance. He swung the horse to the left to enter the lumberyard.

MacDonald dismounted, tied his horse and walked over. “Ye come with me, laddie.”

Curious, Lorenz clambered down and followed MacDonald inside. The one-story building and its fence ran almost the length of the block. After the glare of the sun, it took awhile for his eyes to adjust. Stacked lumber and the remnants of spilled varnish fought with dust to overpower the nose. The man that greeted them had a full head of hair and jowls that should have been full. Instead the jowls had become skin that hung at the sides waiting for better times to flush them out again. Where Stanley had been aloof, this man was openly hostile, resentment edging his voice and manner.

“Your materials are ready for you all to pick up,” he said stiffly.

“There tis now a need to change my plans, but I still need the lumber. I also need a door handle to finish one of the upstairs' rooms for the laddie. The shed twill wait another season,” said MacDonald.

“Do you need Bailey?” asked the slack jowled man. “I can send him out for a day or two. Y'all would pay me by the day.”

“And how can that be legal now?” asked MacDonald.

“Bailey works for me.” The answer was given in flat, final tones.

A small smile worked at MacDonald's mouth. “And did he nay before?”

Clifford flushed, his eyes locking with MacDonald's. “Do y'all want him out there or not?”

“No, thank ye, we twill manage. How much do I owe ye?”

Lorenz watched the money exchange hands and followed MacDonald out the side entrance where Rolfe and Martin were busy loading the lumber in the wagon. An overly thin, black man was helping.

“Bailey, go fetch Mr. MacDonald enough material for an interior door and jambs,” commanded Clifford. He looked at MacDonald wondering what the man would do when it came to installing the lock plate, but didn't ask. He didn't want to hear that someone from Germantown would be summoned. Damn Yankees. They wouldn't use a black before the War and wouldn't use one after. What good was freedom to a man starving to death? He turned and walked back inside, praying for the day when he could refuse to sell to the likes of MacDonald.

Bailey returned with a stack of lumber and added it to the boards on the wagon and handed him a small sack. “That's the handle, latch, and plate, suh.”

MacDonald eyed the man who was no better clad than Lorenz or the laddie carrying the brew for the saloon. He felt a certain kinship, for this man was as trapped as he.

“Aye, thank ye.” He motioned Lorenz to the front, watched him climb up, put the sack in his saddlebag, and mounted his horse. He gave a nod to Martin and the wagon started to roll.

Lorenz settled himself. “Now where we goin'?”

“To the Blue Star,” replied Martin. “Papa and Uncle Mac had the liquor ordered last year, but they couldn't get it through with the war on.”

The blonde was still hustling up business and tried a new angle. “Hey, why don't you all bring your boys in. They look big enough to learn.”

Lorenz grinned and waved his hat. He shot a quick look at MacDonald who had a frown on his face, but he said nothing.

“Any chance of that happening?” he asked Martin.

“Naw.”

“Y'all ever had a woman?”

“Naw, it costs too much. I spent my money on the shirt. It's going to last a lot longer.”

Lorenz twisted to get a better look at Martin. His tanned face was not flushed. In fact, it was downright complacent.

“Besides,” Martin continued, “if things go right, in a couple of years I'll send for a bride. I can wait until then.”

Lorenz sat back to consider that statement. What kind of people was he riding with? Every man he ever knew had considered it natural to go to a whore. Right now he had a hardness between his legs just thinking about it. Was he unnatural?

One of the freighters was ahead of them when Martin pulled to a stop at the loading dock. Lorenz scrambled down. The hardness had evaporated and something more urgent was necessary. He was about to open his fly when MacDonald's big hand closed on his shoulder again.

“Nay here!” the angry roar sounded in his ear. “Have ye nay sense?”

“Why the hell not?” Protest was useless as MacDonald marched him behind the nearest building.

“Ye dinna expose yere privates when there may be ladies or young lassies about. Yere mither would have both of our ears. And dinna piss on the boards, use the ground.”

Lorenz finished and buttoned up the canvas flap. “Others do it that way,” he grumbled.

“Aye, but ye are now part of my House, and ye dinna.”

It was, Lorenz decided, going to be a long ride to wherever they were going. They walked back to the wagon where Martin was pulling up to the dock. Rolfe had a shit-eating grin etched across his face, but Lorenz knew he could do nothing about it.

“Friend Mac, du are learning how much nicer daughters can be.” Rolfe punctuated his remark with another blob of juice.

“Aye,” the word eased out, slow and thoughtful.

Andrew was waiting for them. “I got your papers right here. Y'all want to prove a point?”

MacDonald eyed the man warily. “What have ye in mind?”

“I bet these buggers y'all could carry that barrel of booze with no help.”

“Aye, I do the work, and ye collect the money. I have waited too long for the goods. I twill nay chance breaking the bottles now,” replied MacDonald.

“We'll split it half and half,” cajoled Andrew. Personally, he was glad the war was over. Now a man could earn money again.

Light gleamed in MacDonald's dark eyes. “How much?” came the terse question.

“It's five for y'all and five for me. That makes your telegrams free.”

“Laddie, ye wait here with Mr. Rolfe.” MacDonald rolled after Andrew and soon reappeared, the barrel resting on one shoulder, propped by his hand at the top. Lorenz, like the others, was awed. The man wasn't straining or breathing hard. To him it was child's play. MacDonald's stance once again convinced Lorenz that this man was built somehow different. The body was thicker, the arms and legs sturdier, heavier, wider, the arms looking as if set just a tad too forward, or was it simply they, like the rest of the man, exceeded all normal proportions? MacDonald walked to the wagon and without missing a step walked up the plank, over the lumber, and set the barrel gently against the front. Two other men appeared carrying Rolfe's barrel and placed it beside the first. MacDonald lashed them down with a rope that Rolfe tossed to him.