Paxton and the Lone Star (55 page)

Clear cold water erupted around him. Running by instinct, Firetail took the creek and scrambled onto the opposite bank, hind legs digging in the soft earth, breaking stride for only a few seconds before finding a semblance of a trail. True had enough presence of mind not to try to guide him, but to let him use his own eyes and instincts to fathom the night. Cautious now, though, he slowed to a fast lope and took stock; he must rest the great stallion for the long run ahead. His hand hurt where he had burned it, his right arm, too, where something had cut him. His right thigh was warm with blood, but the wound was slight and didn't need caring for immediately. The trick now was to relax, to save his strength for the days …

The limb stabbed out of the dark, plucked him from the saddle and hurled him savagely to earth. True at first thought he was still astride the horse, but then felt twigs and stones digging into his back. “Not too bad,” he thought, sitting up, relieved that he wasn't hurt. “Lucky it wasn't too … Ahhhhh!”

A white-hot coal of pain exploded inside his skull. Eyes bulging, throat tight in a silent scream, True felt the world slip away from him, and he rolled over and lay as if dead.

Chapter XXXIX

Mila Kania listened to the sky rumble a warning.

Rain again. Please, no more rain.

“Our Father who art in heaven …”

Poor proud Buckland. Man of God. But which God? Lord of peace? Lord of wrath? Was this blasphemy?

“… hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come.…”

Here, now, forever. A kingdom of endless journeying. Of death close at hand, the hound of death bringing us to bay. A kingdom of mud and numbing chill. Of hope and despair …

“… Thy will be done.…”

Try to believe that. Try to want it. What I want is my husband.…

“Oh, Buckland, Buckland! …”

A hand touched her. An arm embraced her. Unseen, Elizabeth had climbed into the wagon for a visit and to offer comfort. “Let's pretend we're not afraid,” she said.

Mila was wrapped in a blanket. Only her eyes and nose showed. “That's easy to say.” Her nose was bright red with the cold and her eyes were dark and hollow with fatigue. “How do we begin?”

Elizabeth sneezed, and wiped her nose with a rag she kept up her sleeve. “Excuse me. All this interminable wetness. Maybe we'd be better off pretending we were dry and warm.”

The wagon jolted sharply to the left. Mila lifted a corner of the canvas. “We're off the trail, I think.” Her eyes clouded with panic. “What's happening? Are they back there again? Why don't they leave us alone? Why don't they just go away … go away.…”

“Hush,” Elizabeth crooned, wrapping her arms around Mila and rocking her as she would a child. “We're just heading south across country. Nothing to worry about. Joseph and Scott think we should have come across General Houston's camp by now. They think we're too far north.”

They could hear the wagon wheels sucking in the mud. The Conestoga bounced and rocked violently. Mila let Elizabeth hold her. “I should have stayed,” she finally said in a tiny, flat voice. “Buckland might have come looking. He was so proud of his church.”

“We all were,” Elizabeth said gently. “He'll build another.”

“No he won't.”

“Of course he will.”

Mila suddenly pushed Elizabeth away from her, crawled on all fours as if trying to escape. When she reached the rear of the wagon, she turned like an animal at bay to face Elizabeth again. The blanket had fallen from her head. The tendons in her neck stood out like hemp cords strung taut, her eyes blazed with fury, and her mouth contorted in a gorgon's mask. “He's dead, don't you see? He's dead, damn it! Dead!”

The blood left Elizabeth's face. She could feel goosebumps prickling her arms. Her skin tingled. “What?” she whispered, shocked.

“Buckland is dead,” Mila repeated.

“Mila, you can't—”

“I can. He is!” The fight suddenly left her voice and she sagged back onto her heels. Her hands lay open and lifeless on her lap. “He is, Elizabeth. I've known for a couple of days.”

“You need to rest.”

“We all need to rest. Rest won't bring him back, though.” Mila's hands started to move. Slowly, rhythmically, she rubbed them up and down her thighs. “The funny thing is, I can't cry. Maybe I will later. I was sleeping, and then I was awake. I knew he was dead. How he died I don't know, but he was dead. At first I thought I was dreaming, but then I knew I wasn't. He stood there and watched me for the longest time. I saw him as clearly as I see you now.” She seemed to become aware of the movement of her hands, and clasped them together. “I'm not mad, Elizabeth, so don't be frightened. He was saying goodbye.”

“Mila …”

“He said I was to live.” She twisted the gold band on her finger, saw in it an empty distorted vision of an uncertain future. “Live for us both, and not to be afraid …”

Elizabeth sneezed again. Her throat felt raw. Water dripped through a hole in the canvas onto her shoulder. She was beginning to believe Mila, and belief worried her. If Buckland was dead, then what of True?

Mila had slumped forward. Elizabeth helped her back to the pallet, and pulled the cover over her again. A moment later, Mila was asleep. Still thinking of True, Elizabeth absent-mindedly pulled another quilt out of the trunk, tucked it around the sleeping woman, and crawled out the front to take her place beside Scott on the driver's seat.

Inside, Mila curled into a tight ball underneath the bright patchwork colors. Buckland was dead and she was alone. In her dreams, days passed and fragments of eternity spun into deep abysses. She did not know it, but she was crying.

Traveling east and south, they left the prairies and entered, once again, the deep woods of east Texas. The world behind the slate gray curtains of rain that preceded and followed them was a wagon-rutted trail closed in on either side by dense growths of rain-blackened trees, mostly pine but with a smattering of beech, magnolia, hickory, and oak. It was a world of wet, bitter winds and cheerless skies, of sodden red mud that clung to feet, horses' hooves, and wagon wheels alike, of cold meals uncaringly cooked over reluctant fires and consumed in the confines of the canvas-topped Conestoga prairie schooner.

Scott and Mackenzie rode rearguard in the buckboard. In the lead, the Conestoga carried Joseph, Lottie and Bethann, Mila, Joan and the girls, and Elizabeth. Tethered to the wagon gates were the horses, heads bowed like mules as they plodded forward on weary legs. No one talked. Energy was a precious commodity not to be wasted.

Joan, Ruthie, and Dianne sat in a line across the back of the wagon and stared dully out the rear. Elizabeth sat propped against a trunk of provisions and watched Lottie and Bethann sleep. Bethann stirred as the wagon jostled to one side, dipped precariously, and righted itself. Elizabeth leaned forward automatically to adjust the baby's blanket and let her hand linger to touch the tiny girl whose dark hair and broad, happy features resembled her father's. Bethann blew a little bubble at the corner of her mouth and snuggled up against her mother. Elizabeth sighed and pulled her hand away. When the wagon lurched again, she shifted to one side so the latch of the trunk wouldn't dig into her back, adjusted the blanket she had wrapped around her shoulders, and returned to her reverie.

She had been considering names, repeating to herself those she might choose for her own children. The world was full of names. More names than she could remember or had even heard or read. But children? There were never enough children. Without children and the joy they took and gave to balance the grief and harshness of the world, how dreary life would be. Even drearier than now, she mused, hearing the patter of the rain on the canvas increase to a dull roar. The temperature hadn't changed, but the change in the sound made her shiver. Her hands were shaking, her teeth chattering. Her forehead was beaded with perspiration that she repeatedly had to wipe away. Her throat was scratchy, her chest and joints ached dully. Her fever was worse, and she wondered how long she could hide it from the others.

Names. Think of names.

Joseph, Andrew, Mackenzie, Dennis, Scott. Buckland, Nels, Thomas or Tom, Kevin. Maurice, of course. Or True. True, Jr. Vance, of course, for her grandfather Vance Michaelson. Vance was a good name. And didn't True have an uncle named Stewart? Or Thomas, like his father. Thomas Gunn. A strange name, but somehow nice. And what about girls? Lottie, Ruth, Joan, Eustacia. Sarah? She liked the name Sarah. It was from the Bible. A pretty name, Sarah. “Sarah?” she called in a whisper. “Sarah, come to Mama, dear.”

She willed her hands to stop shaking. They complied for a moment, but only so long as she watched them and held them clasped together. When she lifted one to wipe the perspiration from her forehead, she could feel it trembling. Outside, the heavy downpour slackened once again into its usual monotonous patter.

Sunshine would be nice. What she wouldn't give for sunshine! Or doing something different—anything. Wistfully, she remembered the day in November when all of Agradecido had gotten together to butcher and make soap and sausage. The day had been brisk but sunny. She had been in charge of the soapmaking, and could smell the sweet leaf fat as it rendered next to the vat of sharp smelling lye dripping from the trough filled with wood ashes. That had been nice. Hard work, to be sure, but better than just sitting and hurting.

She could stand the inactivity no longer. Groaning, she threw off the blanket and forced her arms into her slicker. “Joseph,” she said, shoving aside the canvas flap and poking out her head. Joseph was drenched to the bone. His clothes were plastered to his skin. His hat was a sodden, misshapen excuse for headcover. The brim dangled like a flap of paper over his ears and eyes. It appeared not to matter, for the mules held to the muddy trail without direction. When Joseph gave a start, Elizabeth realized he'd been dozing. “Sorry,” she said contritely.

“'S'all right,” he mumbled, managing a smile. “I thought for a moment it was one of the mules. I've spent enough time talking to them that it made sense they were starting to talk back.”

“Come on in and rest. It's terrible out here.”

“I'm fine,” he insisted.

“You're asleep on your feet—or whatever.”

Joseph straightened and shook his head. Water flew from his hat and sprayed Elizabeth. “Not now. Wide awake.”

“Don't be stubborn, Joseph. You've already ridden out here more than your share of the time.” Elizabeth crawled out, and arranged the slicker underneath her before she sat. “C'mon. Give me the reins.”

“Can't get any wetter, the way I see it.” He pushed his face close. “You look like hell. Get back inside. A few extra hours don't matter.”

“They do to me,” Elizabeth said, taking the reins from him. “Besides, I don't look any worse than you do.” The reins were icy cold except where his hands had warmed them. “Go on, now. There are dry clothes inside.”

“And you call me stubborn,” Joseph said, suddenly yawning widely. “Well, suit yourself. Just a few minutes, though.” He crawled over the seat, turned to shake the water from his hat before taking it inside. A moment later his head reappeared. “One little thing,” he said, stifling another yawn, and kissed her on the cheek. “That's for bein' game.”

Alone again, Elizabeth turned up the collar of her slicker, and lowered her head.
Names. Think of names. Matthew, Mark, Luke, John. Peter. Paul … Jesus. The Mexicans use Jesus a lot, only they pronounce it “Hay-soos.” Don't think it would sound right for True and me.… True … True …

She had no idea how long she'd been sitting there when the squat, squarish shape swam out of the misty gloom. Blinking to clear her vision, Elizabeth realized she had been staring at it for several minutes before actually seeing it. The mules paid no attention, slogged on without a break in rhythm. Dappled patterns became walls and the outline of a roof became a cabin. Elizabeth pulled back on the reins and kicked on the brake. Behind her there was a startled grunt as the change woke Joseph. The wagon rocked slightly as he jumped to his feet, grabbed his rifle, and poked his head out the flap. “What's wrong?” he hissed in her ear.

Elizabeth pointed to the cabin, and heard Joseph's rifle click onto cock, just in case.

“Any movement?” Joseph asked.

“Nothing.” Together they peered at it, searched the surrounding forest for signs of life. “No smoke, no horses.”

“Looks like home to me.” Joseph sounded pleased, then wary. “If we're lucky. Let's take a closer look.”

Elizabeth eased off the brake and clucked to the mules. Only when they had come closer and rounded the side wall did they see that the cabin was nothing but two walls roofed with a handful of charred timbers. A mule snorted to her left. Elizabeth looked over and saw the buckboard move past her. Scott held up a restraining hand. A moment later he waved her forward and then to a stop in front of the remains of the cabin.

A clump of mounded earth lay just outside the stone front stoop. Elizabeth squinted and rubbed the water out of her eyes. She jumped from the wagon when she heard a muffled curse from Scott, and started toward him. “Go on back. It's nothing you need see.”

She should have, but the words didn't register until too late. By the time her brain comprehended and her feet obeyed, she was standing at Scott's side and looking down at a pair of bodies, one tossed on top of the other, both riddled with torn holes, some of which sprouted broken-off arrow shafts. They had been man and woman, probably husband and wife. Both were naked and had been scalped. Both showed signs of hideous savagery, had been repeatedly slashed and mutilated. Bloodless, their skin was a dull gray white covered with an ever-changing pattern as the rain alternately splattered them with mud and washed them clean.