This Loving Land (5 page)

The sudden attack caught the Indians by surprise. They were shrewd and careful fighters, elusive, never trusting a wild charge if they could accomplish their purpose by concealment. Now mounted, whooping Indians came racing toward the wagon, firing and missing. It was diversionary action that Slater and his men were too experienced to fall for. The men crouched behind the wagon, the women and children lay flat in the wagon bed, the frightened team, their heads pulled up by the quick-thinking Bulldog, stamped their feet and moved restlessly. Slater put the butt of his Winchester against his shoulder and fired, his shots seeking out the hidden enemy, firing carefully, squeezing off every shot. Answering fire from the hillside suddenly ceased.

The silence seemed to charge over the hill. Rifles lowered, and in that instant the nearer Indians sprang from the cover of the willows. One big brave lunged his horse straight at Slater. Slater sidestepped and hit him in the small of the back with his rifle butt. The Indian hit the ground and rolled over, lance in hand. Slater hit him again to make sure he was unconscious. A horse was down, screaming. Colt in hand, Slater wheeled, and felt a sharp, stinging pain in his thigh that almost brought him to his knees. From behind the wagon came a crash of shots. Two more Indians fell, and a third fell headfirst off his racing pony and turned head over heels in the grass. The other two broke, seeking shelter, Firing coolly, the men of McLean’s Keep poured lead into the brush. Then again, the sudden silence.

Slater waited. No sound followed except from the wagon; a child was crying, the sound low and muffled. The attack was over. The Apache, like ghosts, vanished, melting into the landscape.

Summer had been trying to figure out the reason for Bulldog’s anxiety when the first shot was fired, the sound bouncing off the hills. The reaction was instantaneous. Bulldog hauled up on the reins and the horses turned halfway across the trail in their effort to stop. Before she realized what had happened, she and Sadie were over the seat and she was flat on top of the squirming John Austin, who was trying to get out from under her so he could see what was going on.

“Stay down and be still, or I’ll hit you!” Summer gasped out the words.

With pounding heart, arms and legs locked around the boy, Summer fought off panic. The noise from the guns beside the wagon was deafening. She heard something far away on the side of the slope that sounded like a shriek. The team stirred restlessly, and the wagon creaked as it followed the movement of the horses. During the lull in the shooting, she could hear hooting and yelping noises that made her blood run cold.

Time dragged. The shooting was unpredictable. Once, Summer heard a muffled curse; shortly after, the whine of a bullet hit the end of the wagon. There was silence, then someone began shooting up on the right of them. This was the hardest part, not knowing what was going on. She opened her eyes and stared into Sadie’s green ones. They were large with fright and the freckles stood out on her white face.

“Shhh, baby. Shhh . . . Mama’s here,” Sadie crooned to the frightened child in her arms.

“You’re heavy, Summer. Can’t you get off now?” John Austin’s voice was tired, bored. It made Summer angry.

“You hush up! We’re not getting up till they tell us we can.”

The wagon creaked as someone climbed up into the bed. Hands beneath her armpits lifted her to her feet.

“You done good. You done real good.” Jack helped Sadie to sit up. She cuddled the frightened little girl to her.

“Was anyone hurt?” Summer held on to the wagon seat, her legs suddenly weak.

“Only a couple little nicks. Ain’t nothin’ that needs to be messed with. You all sit tight.” He jumped down from the wagon. “Slater’ll be glad when you get home tonight!” He turned to Summer gravely.

Slater. Later, Summer was to remember it was the second time she had heard that name. It had a familiar ring.

“We’ll take the guns and that’s all,” Bulldog instructed the men. “They ’spect it. The rest of their plunder we leave. It’s sacred to ‘em. N’other thing. We don’t go a killin’ any wounded, if’n there is any. Killin’ in a fights one thing, bashin’ in heads of wounded is another. We ain’t out to kill no ’Paches if’n they ain’t out to kill us.”

Now Bulldog rushed up the slope to where Slater sat on the ground. The wound in his thigh was throbbing painfully, and he took the handkerchief from around his neck and tied it tightly around his leg.

“Did they get ya, boy?” Bulldog knelt down, but Slater held out his hand to ward him off.

“Only a scratch. Anybody else?”

“Luther got a little nick and Jay got caught with a flying splinter.”

“Why the hell didn’t Jack have somebody out there riding point?” Slater got to his feet.

“Thought you was doin’ that, sonny,” Bulldog said impudently, but his eyes were full of concern.

Slater grinned. “Don’t be givin’ me any of that ‘sonny’ sass, old man. I can still whip your ass.”

“Wal, now . . . I don’t know nothin’ of the kind. Ya ain’t tried it fer a spell.”

“Ain’t had to, you old buzzard.” Slater reloaded his weapons and Bulldog brought his horse over to him. “Better get back down there to the women. Tell Jack I’ll ride point from here on.” He looked at Bulldog, then away. “How did she do?”

“Cool as buttermilk. Threw herself down on top of the kid. Never heard a whimper. Sadie did good, too. Both of ’em got grit. Ain’t ya comin’ down? She’s gonna be askin’. ’Sides, you ain’t ort to be a ridin’ with that gunshot.”

“No, I ain’t coming down. I’m going to ride. Tend to your own business.”

“Ya are my business, ya . . . stubborn jackass.” Grumbling, Bulldog went back to the wagon.

Sundown came, and with it the happy anticipation of homecoming. Summer was tired, but strangely stimulated. Youth is wonderfully resilient. Not even Bulldog’s irritability could dampen her spirits.

The wagon rolled up and over a rise. The house came into view. It was impossible for Summer to tell what her feelings were at that moment, or even if she had feelings at all. The house, set close to the ground, blended into its surroundings as if it had been born there. Built of heavy logs, it looked solid and permanent. A lean-to porch roof had been added recently, the heavy support posts showed the bark had just been peeled. Two doors led into the house from beneath the porch roof, and two stone chimneys rose from each side of the house; one emitting a thin plume of smoke. Summer’s eyes took in everything, from the pole corrals behind the cabin to the plowed garden spot to the side, out from under the shade of the large oak trees that surrounded the house.

They were going alongside the stream. The water gurgled darkly over the stones and swirled around a branch as it bent its way through the long grasses. Summer was scarcely aware of it, her eyes reluctant to leave the house.

“Is this where we’re gonna live, Summer?” John Austin held on to her shoulder to steady himself in the swaying wagon.

“Yes, John Austin. We’re home.”

The riders, except for Jack, abruptly turned, crossed the creek and disappeared down a well-worn trail.

“Did ya tell Raccoon to light a shuck up there and see to the stubborn mule?” Bulldog fired the question at Jack as soon as he rode up beside the wagon.

“Yes, I tol’ him.”

“ ’Times, he don’t use no gumption a’tall.”

“It’s his pride what makes him what he is. That ’n not wantin’ any coddlin’.”

“Might be prouder than a game rooster, but he bleeds anyhow,” Bulldog grumbled.

“Was someone . . . hurt back there?” Summer asked.

“Ya could say t’was back there or a long time ago.” Bulldog spit into the grass and screwed his hat down tighter on his gray head.

Closer to the house now, Summer could see a large pile of freshcut stove wood and a horse tied to the pole railing. Her pulses quickened. Perhaps Sam McLean was waiting to welcome them, after all.

In the back of the wagon, Sadie was shaking Mary awake. Summer looked back and met the girl’s dancing green eyes.

“This is the prettiest place I ever did see, Summer. This is the prettiest place in all of Texas. Look, there’s a sack swing tied up to that tree.”

Summer’s eyes followed the pointing finger and her heart lurched again with a distant, familiar memory.

She heard that voice: “Hold tight, summertime girl.” Happiness, such as she hadn’t known for a long time, swept over her. This was home, the place of the fleeting memories that had haunted her for years.

When she looked back toward the house, Pud was coming out the door. He stood by his horse and waited for the wagon to reach him.

“Put yore horse in the corral, Pud,” Jack called.

“Yo’re gonna stay and make yoreself useful to the women for the time bein’.”

The boy threw his dusty hat in the air. “Yaaa . . . hooo! Ain’t I gonna be the spite of every galoot on this here ranch?”

“Quit a shootin’ off yore bazoo, boy, and start unloadin’ this wagon. The womenfolk are all tuckered out.”

Summer stood in the yard, forgetting for once about her brother. Somehow, the fact that Sam McLean had not been there to welcome them didn’t matter at all. The homestead was so much more than she had hoped for. It was better, after all, to have a place of their own. Now, in her heart, she gave thanks to Sam McLean for bringing them here.

The house was divided into two rooms; one for cooking and eating and the other for sleeping. At the end of the room used for cooking, a ladder led to the loft and a good-sized room tucked under the roof. John Austin came in the door and went up the ladder, not bothering to look at the rest of the house.

“I’ll sleep here, Summer. There’s two bunks with ticks on them.”

On a double bunk nailed to the wall in the kitchen, Sadie placed her bundle of belongings.

“This here will do fine for me and Mary.”

Summer looked into the other room with its large rope bed and thick shuck mattress, clean bedclothes and faded quilt folded neatly at the foot. This was the bed where she was born! She felt a sharp pang of homesickness for her mother, who had suffered here so she might live.

“I don’t need this whole room to myself.”

“Well, you’ll just have to get yoreself a husband then.” Sadie laughed. “I don’t ’spect you’d have no trouble.”

To hide her blush, Summer went to help unload the wagon. She lifted a box, but had it taken out of her hands.

“Here, boy,” Jack called to John Austin. “This here’s man’s work.”

“I can take it,” Summer said. “He gets to thinking about things and doesn’t hear you call.”

Jack frowned. “Boy!” His voice was sharp and loud. John Austin turned and stared at the man, who had removed his dusty hat and slapped it against his thigh when he called. “Over here, boy. Help yore sister. Men don’t dawdle ’round while the women work.”

John Austin didn’t exactly hurry to pick up the case, but that he came at all surprised his sister.

“What’s dawdle, Jack?”

“Dawdle’s when a man stands ’round with his head up his arse and lets his womenfolk do the work.” Jack heaved a large sack onto his shoulder and started toward the house.

John Austin flashed a glance at Summer’s red face and giggled.

“Why is it,” she mumbled as she retreated to the house, “that he always hears the things you don’t want him to hear?”

Bulldog came hurrying through the door.

“Has someone been living here?” Summer asked.

“It’s been used from time to time. Teresa cleaned it up a bit.”

“Mr. McLean’s wife?”

He swiveled around in surprise. “Ain’t married. Teresa’s the Mex woman what cooks ’n cleans for . . . the boss.”

Summer watched him hurry to the wagon for another load. He was anxious to be gone. She and Sadie were putting away supplies when Jack stuck his head in the door.

“Ma’am, I’m a goin’ now. Bulldog already lit a shuck fer the Keep. Pud’ll be stayin’ here. He’s a good lad for all his cuttin’ up.”

“Is the . . . Keep far from here?” For some reason, Summer’s face burned when she asked.

“It’s no more than a hoot and a holler. You go right on down there to the creek and look off yonder.” He pointed toward a cluster of trees partially hidden by an incline. “And you can see the top of the house. There ain’t no need for you all to be a worryin’ none. Pud’ll fire a signal shot if’n there’s anythin’ a’tall.”

“We’re grateful that Pud will be staying with us.” Summer smiled at the boy and held out her hand to Jack. “Thank you for bringing us here.”

Sadie clung to the door frame, shy, not yet sure how she was regarded. Jack smiled at her, the leathery skin around his eyes crinkled. On impulse, she held out her hand.

“Me, too.”

Jack’s smile deepened, and Summer thought the weathered face the kindest she had ever seen. Something like she had imagined Sam McLean would be.

Jack turned to the boy. “You behave yoreself with the women.” He hit him a gentle blow on the stomach. Pud doubled up, as if in pain. “You’ll have to feed him, ma’am. That’s sure ’nuff a chore, ’cause them legs of his are holler.”

They stood beneath the new porch roof and watched him splash across the creek and disappear up the slope.

“Ain’t he nice, Summer? Ain’t he about the nicest man you ever did see?” Sadie sighed. “It’s a pity all men ain’t like him.”

It was during the night that Summer decided she couldn’t stay in this house another day without seeing Sam McLean and thanking him for his assistance. Midmorning, she left the security of the log house and walked down to the creek and the two huge tree trunks lashed together to make a footbridge. She had taken pains with her appearance—she was wearing a blue calico dress with a full skirt and scooped neckline. Her dark hair was coiled on top of her head to make her look older, more sophisticated.

At the footbridge she paused, and her eyes sought the roof of the house where she was headed. She knew she must have been there before, but she remembered it no more than the home she had lived in until she was almost four years old. She stepped up onto the big split logs. High water had washed the far bank, causing the logs to tilt downward and barely clear the rushing water. “Don’t be afraid, I’ll hold your hand,” whispered the voice from the past. A feeling of homesickness for that distant time caused her to pause on the footbridge and look back at the house.

Sadie’s laugh and Mary’s squeals came drifting down to her. Up at dawn, Sadie moved about the kitchen as if she had found heaven. She was making bread and she sang happily to entertain her daughter. John Austin was drawing a picture in the dirt for Pud. The sight of her young brother brought Summer back to the present. And to her need to speak to Sam McLean.

The trail to the ranch house was sandy and up-hill. By the time Summer reached the top and the house came into view, she had a thin coat of perspiration on her brow. Cockleburrs caught at the hem of her dress and she stopped to pick them off, wipe her face, and push the damp curls from her cheeks. Pausing, she stood listening to a scolding bluejay and studied the ranch house. It was a square building made of heavy stone in the style of a Spanish hacienda. A wide veranda held in place by axe-hewn timber pillars was hung with baskets of flowers trailing their bright blossoms from the beams. Massive live oaks shaded the house from the strong sunlight, throwing black shadows on its stone walls. It was beautiful, peaceful.

She walked on slowly, feeling the sun hot on the back of her neck. Excitement stirred inside her. Be calm! she commanded herself. She had to appear calm.

The floor of the veranda was made of stone set deep in the earth. The shade of the veranda, the cold stone floor and wall, made coming in from the outside a cool retreat. A heavy wooden door with wrought-iron hinges stood open, and she could see a spacious room running the width of the house. Overhead, huge, ancient-looking timbers supported the ceiling connecting it to the stone walls, directing the eye to a massive fireplace. Bright Mexican rugs dotted the stone floor, and large, deep chairs, a couch, several tables and a glass-fronted secretary furnished the room.

She hesitated in the doorway. It was so quiet it was eerie. She took a deep breath.

“Mr. McLean.” Her voice didn’t come out very loud and she called again. “Mr. McLean.”

There was nothing to break the silence but her voice. She moved into the room and toward the door beyond. She peered down a long hallway into the first open door. A large trestle table and handsome cabinets filled with dishes and silver assured her that Mr. McLean was not poor.

A large black cook-stove dominated the kitchen. Behind it, arranged neatly, hung an assortment of pots and pans. From the rafters hung bunches of dried spices, chili peppers and colorful gourds. A skillet was left burning on the fire, greasy smoke filling the air.

Instinctively, Summer went for the stove, her eyes searching for something with which to grasp the hot handle of the skillet. Seeing nothing, she bunched her skirt in her two hands and moved the pan to a cooler part of the stove. Standing back, she let her skirt fall back down around her ankles. In spite of the quiet, she had the feeling she was not alone. Swinging around, she jumped with surprise, her hand going to her mouth.

Someone was standing in the gloom at the far end of the room, standing quite still and watching her. While she stared, the figure moved and materialized slowly, became a tall man with a dark shirt and pants, straight black hair and a lean, swarthy face, whose right cheek was badly scarred. There was something about the outline of him, the way he held his head, that caused Summer’s legs to tremble and her heart to pound in the most alarming way. It was him. The man from the street in Hamilton and the man from the store where they loaded the supplies.

“I’m looking for Mr. McLean.” Her voice seemed dreadfully loud.

“You found him.” He didn’t look at her, but moved toward the stove.

“I mean . . . Sam McLean.” Summer looked at his back. He had pulled the skillet back over the flame and dropped a piece of meat into the hot grease. The only noise that broke the silence was the sizzle of cooking meat. He didn’t answer.

“I’m Summer Kuykendall, from over across the creek. I came over to thank Mr. McLean for . . . letting his men escort us from town. John Austin and I . . . John Austin is my brother. We came from the Piney Woods. You see, our mother died and she told me that. . . .” Suddenly, she couldn’t stand the sound of her own voice. Her words seemed so trite, so unnecessary. The man was ignoring her, keeping his face turned away from her, and it made her angry. “Is there someplace where I can wait for Mr. McLean? It’s . . . it’s just not my nature to be beholden to someone and not be able to thank them.”

“There’s no need to feel beholden.” The man’s curt tone matched hers.

Summer was about to make a sharp retort when the man moved. His leg almost buckled under him. It was then that she noticed his feet were bare.