Gather The Children (Chronicles of the Maca Book 2) Page 7

  Very slowly he bunched his legs, glanced at the prone body, and straightened in one easy motion. He studied the ground, deliberately uncrossed his feet, and placed one foot slightly in front of the other. Then he glanced at MacDonald again. The man hadn't moved. He started to inch forward when unspoken words pounded inside his mind. 'Dinna be so foolish, laddie.' Lorenz sat his grey eyes wide in amazement. He took another look at MacDonald.

  This time the hat was tipped back to show one brown eye and a smile on the man's lips. “'Tis glad I am ye dinna try that.”

  “Ah got stiff. Had to stretch.” His lips tightened and he looked straight ahead.

  MacDonald grunted. “Tis time to be leaving.” He stood and brushed the dirt from his backside.

  “Remember, ye dinna touch yere beastie.” He kept his rifle in his right hand and swung the saddle to his shoulder. Lorenz stood and watched.

  He was puzzled. Was the Big Bastard going to make him walk? He savored his renaming of MacDonald in his mind. Whenever he thought of him it would be Big Bastard. Once more unspoken words pounded inside his head. 'And ye are nay punished for thoughts.' Lorenz could swear he heard a chuckle on that one, but MacDonald's face was smooth, mouth closed, unsmiling. He watched the Big Bastard saddle his horse, making soft, soothing noises as he cinched the saddle down and returned the rifle to the scabbard.

  MacDonald gathered the reins of both horses and pointed at the incline where he had ridden down. “Walk,” he commanded.

  Lorenz saw no gain in refusing and began walking, the stiff leather of the new boots protesting against his heel and instep. He'd druther have his old boots for this hike, for hike it would be he realized when they reached the road. They'd ridden a fair piece and only dust wavering in the distance showed there was anything nearing them. He glanced at the Big Bastard to see why he had stopped.

  The Big Bastard was tying Dandy's reins to his saddle horn. He smiled at Lorenz and said, “Ye twill ride behind me.”

  By the time Lorenz was ready to protest, MacDonald had his left foot kicked out of the stirrup and his hand down. Lorenz stood rock still, his eyes screaming hatred. MacDonald sighed, “Laddie, either ye ride behind me or I twill truss ye up like a pig going to market and hang ye over the back.”

  Lorenz took the extended hand and swung up. MacDonald kept his big hand securely wrapped around Lorenz's left hand. “Now put yere right arm around my waist and yere right hand over yere left hand.”

  Lorenz hesitated and the huge hand began to crumble his. Son-of-a-bitch, he thought, and rapidly put his arm around MacDonald as directed. In an instant, MacDonald had both of Lorenz's hands clamped firmly against his belt. “I want nay tricks on this ride.” He clucked his tongue and Zark began a slow trot.

  It was downright humiliatin'. Lorenz sat with his back as straight as possible, but the gait was uncomfortable, and the almost musky smell exuding from the sweat stained shirt in front of him was bewildering. It flat was no human smell he could recognize. There was no seeing around the man's bulk so he contented himself with searching to the side, committing the terrain to memory.

  Within one-half an hour they met the approaching wagon. “Whoa up, twill ye, Martin?” asked MacDonald and trotted to the back of the wagon.

  “Dismount.” His hands released their grip and Lorenz slid down. MacDonald followed and tied Dandy to one of the back hoops. “Now walk to the front.”

  As they moved to the front, James glared at Lorenz as MacDonald gave a rueful grin and said, “Sorry, Young James, but ye twill need to ride in the back again.”

  James looked longingly at his father, then at MacDonald, but decided that begging for a ride at this point would not be in his favor. He climbed over the seat and settled for a position at the sidewall.

  Lorenz looked at MacDonald and the big man pointed to the seat. Red faced, he swung up over the wheels, plunked his butt on the hard seat, and folded his arms across his chest. Martin didn't even bother to look at him. He had his face set, eyes forward with no welcoming smile as he snapped the reins over the team's back to start their journey again. That was fine with Lorenz. He didn't want to talk anyway. He sure as hell had lost that round. He watched the back muscles of the horses move with easy ripples, dust raising and swirling around the hooves with every step. A light breeze shifted the smell of spring into dry summer.

  When they passed the point of his debacle, he looked the other way. Flat, gently undulating prairie stretched over the horizon, studded with an occasional oak or boulder. Sometimes you could see a column of smoke in the distance where some rancher was holding onto the land for a reason that only God could know or see why. He looked over at Martin. The young man still had his jaw set in a stubborn line while staring straight ahead.

  Young James had hung his arms over the wagon lip and was standing on the possible box. He was clearly bored with the scenery and was watching the clouds. Every so often he would turn and stick his tongue out at Lorenz. Lorenz half laughed to himself. Crazy little kid! Hell, he didn't want his seat.

  He looked again at Martin. “What's got yore back up? Ah'm the one who took the lickin'.”

  “Ja, and I'm the one who's a jackass.”

  “Hell, didn't yu'll figure ah wuz going to hightail it?”

  Martin shifted uncomfortably. “Never even thought about it, but Papa did. It seems I should a little smarter be.” His speech had slid back into the German syntax. “Besides, I figured y'all would be glad your Mama to see.”

  “Ah doan even remember her.” The lie slid out easily. “Ah might have swung by there iffen ah got away just to see iffen she wuz all right.” He spat over the wheel. “Nobody would figure ah go that way. Besides,” he added, “she doan want me, hit's Daniel she'd be waiting for.”

  “Y'all know what, Lorenz,” said Martin, “I think y'all are half-crazed on loco weed. Tante Anna wants all of her children back. If y'all don't really remember anything, why do y'all think she wants only Daniel?”

  “Yeah, and if Tante doesn't want you, how come we had to put your name in all of our prayers?” Young James had been waiting for his chance to talk again.

  Lorenz straightened. “Prayers?” He laughed, forgetting to use his broken language. “Y'all have been saying prayers for me? That's funny. Y'all don't really believe there's a God listening to that?”

  “You're here, aren't you?” shot back James. “And Papa says your sister's alive too.”

  Lorenz shifted his position. The strapping had been nothing, but the wagon seat was tolerably hard as it jolted from rock to rut, and his backside bruised from when MacDonald knocked him on the log. James's logic worried him. He didn't like it that Martin had seen through the fact that he did remember Mama. That adults labeled his words lies was natural, but he was unaccustomed to give and take with someone his own age. Now these two had called his bluff. He drifted into silence.

  The day's heat was retreating when Martin pulled off the road under a shaded spot guarded by tall cottonwood trees. The bank, pebbled with stones and grass, spilled down towards the river where willows clustered and covered the bank at the turn where water pooled. Cottonwoods sprouting up from the roots provided a natural fence. The blackened stones around the cooking area gave testimony to the fact that here was a spot favored by travelers.

  Young James scooted from the wagon, glad to be free of its confines and began a mad search for firewood. He caught the bundle MacDonald tossed to him.

  “There were plenty of cow chips from our passing.” MacDonald grinned at Lorenz. “Ye have yere choice: work and eat. If nay work, ye hunger.”

  Martin had already swung down and was busy unhitching the horses. Rolfe was working at the wagon gate, obviously going for the camp gear. “Ah'll work, ah reckon.” He climbed down, his legs stiff from bracing against the jolting ride.

  MacDonald dismounted and unhooked the cobbles. “Then take the nosebags from the side. When we get to where the beasties are to be bedded, use a portion from each and put that into yere hat
for yere own horse, but dinna touch him. I'll attend.”

  Inside, Lorenz fumed, but did as he was told. At least they had given the squaw's work of wood gathering to Young James. MacDonald walked beside him as he led both Zark and Dandy over to where Martin was removing the harnesses and bridles. Martin took two of the hobbles from MacDonald and carefully clamped one pair on each horse while Lorenz apportioned part of the grain for Dandy. MacDonald slid his saddle off while Martin finished hobbling the last two horses and then loped down to the river, lay prone, and gulped the fresh water. He half-rose, rinsed his hands and came back grinning. “By God, I was dry I'll have supper on before long, Uncle Mac.”

  Lorenz watched him stride off. “He do the cooking?” he asked. Dandy was making a mess of what was left of his hat. He wondered if maybe he could convince the Big Bastard to replace it before he left for good. Probably not.

  “Aye,” came the reply to his question.

  Rolfe joined them, unsaddled, and attached the last nose bag “I think ve should get wasser here, Mac.”

  “Aye, twill nay be as clear nearer to House.” To Lorenz, he added, “We twill be the last two days with but a trickle of water.” He and Rolfe headed back to the wagon carrying their saddles and guns.

  Should he run now? Naw, either one could drop him. He watched MacDonald take both saddles and walk to the back of the wagon where he deposited them. Rolfe took down the barrel on the passenger side and slung it over his shoulder and hiked back to the river. MacDonald appeared on the side with a second barrel. By now Dandy had finished his grain, and Lorenz wiped out his hat and set it back on his head. The sun was slowly meandering toward the back of the low foothills while the leaves rustled in tune with the singing river.

  “Ye can give a hand, laddie, with the filling of the barrels,” said MacDonald.

  When both barrels were filled, Lorenz helped Rolfe carry the one and MacDonald took the other. Big Bastard, thought Lorenz. Damn, the man was strong.

  Rolfe finished lashing their barrel and bit off a chew. He grinned at Lorenz. “Gut day for a swim.” He swaggered off while Lorenz tried to puzzle if Rolfe had meant good when saying goot.

  Once more MacDonald emerged from the back of the wagon. This time he carried one of the bundles from the store and a towel wrapped around it. He too was grinning.

  Lorenz considered running, but the man was beside him with the huge hand clamping down on his shoulder, brooking no opposition. They marched back to the river. He could hear potatoes plopping into the hot grease and wished he was helping Martin.

  MacDonald released him and began to undress. “Take yere clothes off.”

  “The hell!”

  The next thing Lorenz knew his britches were down around his ankles, his shirt and hat removed, and his butt hit the ground. MacDonald yanked his boots off and pointed his finger at him.

  “Dinna move.” He then continued to disrobe.

  Lorenz sat with his knees up to his chin, once again thoroughly humiliated. He hoped like hell Martin and James hadn't been watching. He sensed MacDonald folding his clothes and was rudely raised from the ground by the hand under his arm.

  “This, laddie, tis called soap. Yere mither has spent long hours preparing it. If ye drop or lose this in the water, I twill consider it open rebellion. Do ye ken?” The bar was but three inches from his eyes.

  “Reckon,” he muttered sullenly while half looking at the man and stopped to gape. Never, never in his life had he seen such a build. The man was solid, corded muscle. Normally a man of such girth had flab for a stomach or was stocky fat: not MacDonald. He had rope cords for an abdominal wall, biceps ran into triceps, even the calves of his legs were hard, rolled muscle, and unlike most white men, the body was practically devoid of hair, even in the genital area. “My God, y'all ain't fat nowhere,” slumped out of his slackened jaw.

  “Thank ye, laddie.” The man's eyes twinkled in amusement. “Now 'tis time ye joined the ranks of civilization. Walk.” He pointed towards the river.

  Defiance snapped back into Lorenz's eyes. “The hell!”

  MacDonald's hand was on his shoulder again and he thought the better of saying more obscenities. He walked. When the water was up to his thighs, the pressure stopped. Once more the soap was held directly in front of his face, a faint whiff of lavender greeting his nose.

  “Now, ye are to wet yere hair and rub this into it and soap yere body. Remember what I said about the hours it took to make.”

  Lorenz remained standing. The huge hand went around his neck and a knee hit behind his. His face and upper torso were completely immersed and he was shaken like a rag flapping in the breeze He came up sputtering, water running from his long hair into his eyes and mouth.

  “Now, ye take the soap and begin at the top of yere head and finish with yere toes, or by Gar, I'll do it for ye, and nay too gently.”

  Lorenz did as he was ordered. He hoped the Rolfe's were all busy elsewhere and not watching his final humiliation. He thought seriously about pounding on Martin if there was so much as a snicker when they got back. He fought desperately to hold onto the soap. He figured MacDonald was just waiting for the chance to belt him again, and this time there would be an audience. He was about to hand the soap back when MacDonald checked him.

  “Ye have nay finished. Ye move the skin back like this,” he said as he demonstrated with his own dick. “Or ye twill nay be able to make bairns when ye are a man.”

  Lorenz gazed at him dumbfounded and wondered what the hell the man was talking about this time.

  MacDonald grinned. “Bairns are babies, wee ones. Wash.”

  Lorenz half-way choked, turned his back, and half did as he was told. He was afraid that MacDonald might carry out his threat to wash him personally, and he wasn't giving that Big Bastard any excuse to touch him. Stiffly he held the soap out.

  MacDonald extracted the soap. “Rinse off while I do myself.”

  Lorenz slipped into the river and dog paddled furiously. The water was warm and soft, and it floated away the soap on his body and part of his agitation. Could he out swim the man? For what? He was naked and weaponless. Did he have time to get back to the bank and unhobble a horse? Rolfe was already out of the water and had a rifle. Would the man shoot? Probably. He stopped and stood while the water swirled chest high. He saw MacDonald throw the soap up on the bank and slide easily into the water. The man slipped through the water like a knife through bear fat. With less effort and fewer strokes, he was suddenly beside Lorenz. The Big Bastard was a wonderment. Lorenz didn't know people could swim like that.

  The man was smiling down at him, the dark hair plastered to his head. “Ye have nay learned the rudiments of proper swimming. Ye lay yere body out flat and move yere arms and legs in smooth strokes like this.” Once more the huge body propelled itself through the water, moving as smooth as a fish. He stood. “Try it.”

  Lorenz was dubious, but if the Big Bastard could do it, so could he, and he shoved into the water. His body betrayed him and became tense. He was dog paddling by the time he reached MacDonald.

  “Better,” grunted MacDonald. “Now try again, but remember to move yere head from side to side for the breathing.” He took off for the bank and Lorenz followed.

  The strokes were smoother this time and Lorenz floundered up on the ground without reverting to dog paddling. If there was anything he could out do the Big Bastard on, he hadn't discovered it yet. He moved to put on his clothes when the deep voice stopped him.

  “Ye dry off with this.” MacDonald handed Lorenz a towel. “Then ye put on these,” and he held up the summer drawers and vest, an abbreviated, cotton version of winter underclothes by being shortened to mid-calf and upper arm.

  Lorenz took the towel and swiped at parts of his anatomy while eying the underwear with distaste. “Hit's too hot!” he protested.

  “Aye,” agreed MacDonald, “but if I must wear the damn things, so twill ye.”

  Lorenz ground his teeth. Rity had made him wear the itching,
confining clothing and he detested them. He glared at the big man. “An' iffen ah doan put 'em on?”

  “Laddie, I took yere clothes off, and I can put others on ye.”

  The spoken fact was irrefutable. Lorenz grudgingly donned the underwear. MacDonald handed him the new shirt and trousers.

  “Hell, they'll just be dirty by the time we reach Mama.” Lorenz searched for a way to avoid the stiff, new clothing.

  “Twill be better than what ye are wearing.” MacDonald pulled his boots on and handed Lorenz a jackknife already opened. “Tis for the paring of the toenails ere ye put on the socks,” he explained.

  While Lorenz worked the knife, MacDonald eyed the long hair as he waited, but decided to let Anna attend to the barbering. Gar kenned he had subjected the laddie to enough indignities in one day. He reclaimed the knife, rolled up the dirty clothes, adjusted his hat, and picked up the towel and soap. The smell of potatoes and bacon frying, coffee boiling, and beans filled the air.

  Lorenz felt his mouth watering. No help for it. It seemed best to follow MacDonald back to the wagon and eat before plotting another escape. Maybe there'd be an opportunity tonight or tomorrow to slip away.

  Rolfe grinned at them and waved a bottle as they approached the back of the wagon. “By Gott, we're a clean camp tonight! Have a drink, friend Mac. It's been too damn long.”

  MacDonald deposited the items and took the proffered bottle and drank well. “Thank ye, friend Rolfe.” He did not offer the bottle to Lorenz, but returned it to Rolfe. Lorenz had not really expected it, but the man had offered him beer.

  MacDonald shoved all of the bathing paraphernalia into the possible box and handed Lorenz a cup. “Help yereself to some of the coffee if ye like.”