Gather The Children (Chronicles of the Maca Book 2) Page 4

  “Ah, very well, then I twill need a pouch of tobacco.” He turned to Lorenz and asked, “Do ye smoke, laddie?”

  For once Lorenz was polite, “Yus, suh.”

  “Make that two bags of tobacco and some papers for the laddie. We twill also need a loaf of that bread and a pound of cheese.” He looked around, “And do ye have some pickles left?”

  “Yes, suh, we do. They're in the bottom of the right barrel. Y'all can fish out what you all want.”

  Lorenz retrieved the pickles while Stanley removed the cheesecloth from the cheese and positioned the wheel over the round to hit the mark for one pound. The cleaver moved downward in one deft stroke. “Will that be all?”

  “Aye, tis enough.”

  Stanley totaled the sums, frowning and wetting his pencil stub. “That comes to twenty-five dollars.”

  “'Tis dear,” muttered MacDonald and reluctantly counted out the money.

  “The price of flour just keeps going up. Sugar too. Even if folks had jobs they couldn't afford either one.” Bitterness was back in Stanley's voice. “How's Schmidt doing way out there?” Not that he cared. He just wanted confirmation that the damn Yankees were caught in the same unnatural way of things since the War's end.

  “Nay well. He has carried too many on his books too long.”

  Stanley nodded. Somehow he couldn't gloat. What's a man to do when kids and women were hungry? He wrapped the purchases in brown paper, tied them with twine, and handed the bundles to MacDonald.

  Outside the sun hit full force. Dust rose in puffs and streams with every passing horse and vehicle. An undersized eight-year-old boy with snotty nose and cut down trousers was hustling down the street paused and asked, “Beer, mister?” He held up an almost clean lard bucket.

  “Aye.” MacDonald tossed the boy a nickel. The brown hand shot out and clutched the coin while the boy spun on his heels and lifted them in a dead run to the saloon down the street.

  MacDonald handed Lorenz the packages and put down the wagon gate. He shoved the clothing and sundry items back and opened the bread and cheese, cutting both in huge slabs. Lorenz waited, his stomach lurching with the anticipation of food. He took the sandwich MacDonald made and swallowed it in huge gulps. MacDonald eyed him, sighed, and built two more sandwiches before hoisting himself up on the wagon.

  “We might as well sit. And chew that damn thing. There tis more.” He took one of the pickles and halved it neatly with his broad teeth.

  Lorenz flushed. The bread and cheese were hitting his stomach like lumps, but it had been a long time since he had eaten more than a mouthful of jerky. The last two days he hadn't hunted. He had not wanted Zale to know that he was near. Money he had run out of months ago.

  The boy came dashing back with a full bucket of beer, neatly avoiding the woman on the sidewalk. MacDonald handed down his own lard bucket and the contents of the first was transferred. “Here, laddie, have a bite of cheese.” MacDonald cut off a generous chunk and handed it to the child.

  Saliva drooled out of the boy's mouth. “Thank y'all, suh!” He snatched the cheese with the same alacrity as he had the coin and ran towards the freight office. Someone there might be thirsty.

  Lorenz took another sandwich and a pickle. This one he chewed. “Don't that Stanley fellow like y'll?” He looked at MacDonald warily, but the man had said he had a right to ask questions.

  “To most in this town, we are nay but damn Yankees. They tried to burn us out during the war and failed. Now they can do nay.” Laughter edged in MacDonald's speech, then vanished. “Then too, they are nay happy with yere mither.” He paused and Lorenz looked at him.

  “She twas with the Comanche for two years, laddie. The townspeople think she should hide away like some dirty thing.” The r's rolled more thickly on his tongue again. “Fortunately, yere mither has more sense and pride than that. Howe'er, any slurs that may be said against her in this town are my business, nay yeres.”

  Anger shook Lorenz and he forgot to use his dialect. “They wouldn't dare.”

  “They have nay openly dared since the first time I brought her back,” said MacDonald complacently. “That does nay keep them from thinking.” He took another hunk of cheese. “Do ye wish another sandwich?”

  “Ah reckon.” A man could travel far on a full belly. They split the last of the pickles.

  “Do ye wish some brew?” MacDonald hefted the beer bucket.

  “Nah, ah don't like it.”

  MacDonald tipped back his head and drank heavily and then wiped his mouth. “That seems strange when yere mither makes some of the best brew around.”

  “Mama makes beer?”

  “Aye, tis a receipt she and Kap have from yere grandfither.”

  Lorenz shook his head. Who the hell was Cap? There was still a lot he had to put together. “Why din't we eat at the restaurant like Rolfe and his kids?”

  “Tis Mr. Rolfe, laddie,” reminded MacDonald. “He spends his money his way, and I spend mine my way.”

  “What's laddie mean?”

  “'Tis my way of boy, kid, or son.” MacDonald's voice was low and gruff, but sounded kind. Lorenz was beginning to think the man a fraud. People feared him because he was huge. Sheer meanness probably wasn't in him. The problem was his size. If the man got aholt of somebody, he would do damage, mean or not. Worse, it was possible he was someone that Lorenz had heard about.

  “You and Mr. Rolfe,” Lorenz emphasized Mister to see if MacDonald took offense and didn't see the warning glint in MacDonald's eyes. When no verbal warning came, he continued, “are you all called the Bear and the Wolf?”

  MacDonald chuckled. “Aye, the Comanche have called us that. Where did ye hear it?”

  “In Zale's camp. Wolf, Mr. Rolfe wuz after 'em. Ah saw him once. He was slow skinnin' a man. Scared the shit out o' me.

  MacDonald lowered the beer and looked at him, not sure that he had heard the mangled English correctly. “When was this?”

  “Ah wuz about seven.” Seeing the puzzled look on MacDonald's face, he kept on talking. “Mamacita, that's what ah called Zale's woman, kept a countin' stick.” At MacDonald's nod of understanding, Lorenz launched into a recital with his own brand of English.

  “Somebody came into camp claiming a whole passel of folks was after Zale, and they all broke like crazy. Ah wuz off doin' somethin', ah doan recollect what, and snuck out of there. Ah thought ah got clean away when ah looked down over a bluff. Figured somebody wuz down there, cuz ah heard a horse. Iffen they wuz after Zale, ah tho't they might take me home. Anyways, ah looked over and there wuz one dead horse and two of Zale's men jist as dead. Another of his men wuz tied down oveh the dead horse and the Wolf, ah means Mr. Rolfe, wuz parin' away; real slow like.” Like came out as liake.

  “The man was part Injun so he warn't screamin', but ah ran back towards where camp had been. Rolfe didn't seem no different from Zale and his men. At least ah knowed them. Mamacita wuz lookin' for me and took me back with her. We both got a beatin' that night.”

  MacDonald set the empty lard bucket down. “Tis a shame ye ran. Friend Rolfe would nay have harmed ye as he kenned yere mither and uncle even then. Ye would have been safely home within the week.” He reached for the cans of peaches and milk. The laddie's face showed nay emotion. “However, dinna mention the skinnin' to Young James.”

  He held up the two cans. “Have ye tried these?” Deftly, he used his knife to saw open the peaches and put two slits into the canned milk.

  Lorenz shook his head no. The sudden spurt of confidence had spurred him into gabbing like a jaybird. He was confused, but this time with himself. He watched MacDonald slap two peach halves each on two slices of bread, and then empty the milk into the juice of the peach can. What the hell does kenned mean, he thought. Knowed? He accepted a peach crowned slice of bread, used his hands to keep the fruit from sliding off, and gulped half of the bread. The jolt of sugar hit his taste buds. God, that was good! He took a swig of the milk sweetened juice and nearly gagged. He hadn't
tasted milk since he was what? Seven? Eight?

  MacDonald's huge paw grasped the can before it dropped from his hand. “Nay so fast to be rid of it, laddie.” Laughter skirted the edge of his voice and Lorenz flushed.

  “I wish some too.” He tilted his head and downed half the liquid, finished chewing the crust in his mouth, offered the can to Lorenz, and at his refusal, downed the last of can. “It makes a tolerable pudding,” he said with a grin.

  “Milk's for babies,” Lorenz protested.

  MacDonald's shoulders shook, the breadth of them straining against his shirt.

  “Laddie, the Union men thanked the good Gar for that invention,” he said as he pointed to the empty milk can.

  Lorenz ignored him and watched the stragglers moving on the plank sidewalk. The Rolfe family approached, ten-year-old James scooting in front, then dropping back, his head working like a swivel under his brown hat, gooseberry eyes taking in everything, his nose working almost as fast as a hound dog on a trail, and his legs jerking like sticks as he skittered in one direction then another, never far enough to provoke Papa Rolfe to wrath. Martin lifted a hand in greeting and disappeared into the dry goods store. Rolfe handed James a coin and watched his youngest charge after the older.

  “Und mind your manners.” With that bit of fatherly advice, Rolfe walked to the wagon. “I sent the poy for some beer. I'll buy du a drink, friend Mac.”

  “Thank ye, friend Rolfe.” It was the easy banter of men who spent long hours in each other's company.

  To Lorenz he said, “Laddie, I need to purchase yere mither a gift. Ye twill remain here.”

  He grinned at Lorenz and then at Rolfe. “Try nay to hurt him if he bolts. I would like to take him to his mither in one piece.”

  Cold blue eyes swept over Lorenz. “Don't vorry.” Rolfe spat. “I may drink your beer if du take too damn long.” He leaned against the tailgate and folded his arms across his chest.

  Lorenz remained where he was. He knew Rolfe would nail him with the bowie knife if he were dumb enough to run. He watched MacDonald's wide form rock down the planks and enter a small store at the end of the block. He was puzzled again. What kind of man bought a gift for his woman? Zale hadn't ever given his woman anything but a bunch of still-birthed kids and beatings. Red never gave the women that worked in his brothels anything, and that fellow he worked for when he was twelve and swamping out the livery stable in Tucson never said anything about buying his woman a gift.

  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.” Ma
rtin 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.