Gather The Children (Chronicles of the Maca Book 2) Page 8

  Lorenz did like. It had been weeks since he'd had any. He watched Martin stirring at the gravy and checking the coals under the Dutch oven. He wondered if those other two would drink themselves pie-eyed. Getting away would be no problem then, but he doubted if they would. Still, they were getting older, and Lorenz had noticed that older men often had a problem holding their booze. Rolfe he judged to be between forty or fifty. MacDonald sure looked younger, but it was hard to say. Rity said Mama would be about forty now. That meant MacDonald had to be older, but he didn't look it. He quit trying to ponder their ages and decided to make his peace with Martin, or he'd have the whole camp watching him for just one wrong move. MacDonald and Rolfe were now talking about everyday things: weather and cows, men in town. Easy they were with each other, not bothering the bottle at all. Weren't they like other men and drank until every drop gone? He sipped at the hot coffee and said, “Yu'll make a good pot.” Would that mollify Martin? He'd better not say anything about the bath though.

  Martin grunted a reluctant, “Thanks.”

  “How'd yu'll get the beans cooked so fast?”

  Martin pointed to a hefty box sitting to the side. “It's an old country method. Y'all take a box lined with bricks, straw, or hay. Then start your beans in the morning and put pot and all in the box, put the lid on, cover it with more hay or straw, then the box top, and let it ride all day. The heat stays inside and keeps right on cooking. I'll show y'all in the morning.” Martin's voice became authoritative as he demonstrated his superior knowledge.

  Lorenz examined the box built of wood and bricks. Could something so simple serve as a stove? He would have preferred meat, but right now he was so hungry he didn't care. “Didn't wimen in the old country stay in the house and cook?” he asked.

  “Ja sure, but the peasants, the ones who work the land for the rich, would have to be out in the fields all day, them and their kids. They would use a box like that to have something cooked when they came in from the fields.” Martin kept stirring the gravy while he talked. “Hand me some water,” he said to Lorenz.

  Lorenz obliged and wondered where Young James was. Dusk was rapidly splashing the ground with lengthening shadows and the sky with quiet pinks and golden grays. The breeze cooled the body and quickened the flames.

  “Too damn much smoke,” came from the elder Rolfe. He walked over and pushed the coals and burning materials together. “Like dat.” He shook his head and wondered if his eldest son would ever learn.

  James returned carrying more cow chips piled on a few dead pieces of wood and didn't notice Martin's red face and set lips.

  “Chow's on,” called Martin as James added to the fuel pile. James then darted between everyone and grabbed his plate and fork to be first in line. Lorenz waited to see retribution descend, but none came.

  MacDonald handed him a plate and fork. “Ye are second.” A slight smile played over his lips at the amazement on Lorenz's face. “We feed the wee ones first.”

  Lorenz snapped his lips together, but decided this was no time for anger. He was too hungry. He waited while Martin filled James's plate and then his. After Lorenz came MacDonald and Rolfe. Martin filled his plate last, first positioning the beans and gravy to a place where they would stay warm. Before eating, he hung a pot of water directly over the coals.

  By mutual consent they sat Indian style, and Lorenz devoured the contents of his plate.

  MacDonald nodded toward the pots. “Tis plenty. Help yereself.”

  Lorenz needed no second invitation.

  The pots were empty when MacDonald brought out the last cans of peaches and milk. He divided the contents onto each plate. Everyone but Lorenz poured the evaporative milk over the fruit. Lorenz still couldn't see grown men willingly drink milk, but held his tongue. After they finished Lorenz learned that he was expected to scrape the plates and wash the gear while Martin tidied the cook area and put the washed utensils away.

  When the last pot was stowed, Lorenz started off towards the willows and MacDonald followed. “Yu'll doan need to worry. Jest somethin' ah need to get rid of.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Face it, laddie, I am yere nursemaid for the next few days. I dinna trust yere wanderings.”

  Once again there was no avoiding the humiliation as Lorenz could think of no way to stop the man. He used the willow and cottonwood leaves when he had finished and MacDonald pointed towards the river.

  “We twill walk down there and ye twill rinse yere hands.”

  “Why?”

  “'Tis another of Mrs. MacDonald's and my rules.”

  “The Rolfe's do that too?” Lorenz couldn't help but ask.

  “I am nay responsible for the Rolfes.”

  Lorenz gauged the bulk blocking his way back to camp and walked to the river. “How come yu'll all feed kids first?” he asked.

  “'Tis my way, and tis the German-Lutheran way of yere mither. We all consider children treasures from Gar.”

  Lorenz knelt and rinsed his hands. What the hell was German-Lutheran? Every time he got an answer, it meant another question. “Injuns feed the man first,” he stated. “That's fer the huntin' and then they feed the boys. After that, the women and girls can have what's left. When do women folk eat yore way?” He remembered sitting with Rity at the table while Theresa served them.

  “My way tis the same as yere mither's. We are adults and when together, we eat together.”

  Lorenz decided that white men's ways were pretty much the same on that score except for feeding the kids. He'd seen men eat while their kids stood there skinny as a hound dog after a chase and their eyes begging the same way for a crumb. MacDonald pointed back at the camp and he matched the big man's pace.

  “The first watch tis mine,” said MacDonald as they neared the wagon. “We twill set up our sleeping equipment now.”

  He brought out Lorenz's blanket and his own roll. Lorenz seethed inside. The Rolfes were in different stages of bedding down, their rolls spread away from the light of the dying fire. Darkness was bold in its coming and covered the area. Lorenz flopped out his one blanket and MacDonald handed him another. “Ye may need this,” came the gruff voice.

  “Not in this heat and with these damn clothes on,” Lorenz shot back.

  “Keep your voice down. Young James tis already abed. Now, front side or back side?”

  “Huh?” Lorenz turned and saw the rope swinging in MacDonald's hand.

  “When ye sleep, ye twill be tied, but the hands can be either in front or in back.”

  “Front,” muttered Lorenz, then louder, he said, “but ah ain't tired yet. Why cain't ah jest walk around with yu'll? Ain't nobody out there.”

  MacDonald considered and then rolled and tucked the rope under his belt. “Aye.” He motioned towards the horses with his rifle, and they walked softly out of camp. After a quick check on the horses, MacDonald settled on a rock and filled his pipe. “Do ye ken the name of that star?” he asked, pointing to the end of the Little Dipper.

  “Ah reckon. Ah heered it called the North Star.”

  “Aye, or the Polar Star. Do ye ken any of the other constellations?”

  Darkness hid the blankness of Lorenz's face and the big man's voice rumbled on. “There are spiders, twins, a crab, and a flying horse among them. Do ye ken?”

  Only a cricket answered and MacDonald sighed. “Sit down,” he invited, “and I twill show ye as they appear.”

  It was better than being tied, so Lorenz sat. For the first time he heard the tales of the Twins, Orion's Belt, and Pegasus. Every so often, MacDonald's arm would sweep skyward as he recited the legends while star-shine and moonlight brightened the night. Lorenz was slow to realize that he had been snookered, hooked on the tales, and kept asking what happened next. Sometimes he snorted at the foolishness of it all, but still he wanted more.

  When MacDonald finally banged the last dregs from the pipe bowl and stood, Lorenz knew he didn't want it to end: this feeling that somehow, someone, thought he was worth the spinnin
g of tales. He was tired, too tired to realize that MacDonald's syntax and vocabulary were being imprinted on his brain. “How did y'all learn all that?”

  “In truth, yere Uncle taught me the lore of this, ah, ancient Greece.”

  “How'd he learn it?”

  “He attended school.”

  “They teach that in school?” Lorenz found it strange as it certainly wasn't ciphering or reading.

  “Aye, tis called mythology,” explained MacDonald as he started back to camp, but Lorenz was desperate to delay the inevitable.

  “Didn't y'all go to school?”

  “Oh, aye, but twas a different lore that I twas taught.”

  “What lore? What's lore anyways?”

  “Laddie, ye nay fool me. 'Tis yere bedtime. Walk.”

  Lorenz tried to stand his ground and slipped back into his usual way of talking. “Ah don't like bein' tied. Why can't ah just stay out here with yu'll?”

  MacDonald clamped his hand down Lorenz's shoulder, but more gently than the last time. “Walk, and ken ye, I dinna like tying ye, but ye are going to House. If, per chance there tis trouble, I twill nay worry about yere whereabouts; nay twill Mr. Rolfe. Nay can I allow ye to cause a disturbance while we are in camp. Mr. Rolfe twill relieve me later, and he needs his rest.”

  Lorenz was wise enough to know that if he fought now, he would be tied sooner tomorrow night, nor would the Big Bastard bother being gentle again. Somehow he had to convince the man that it wasn't necessary to tie him. Maybe the man would knot the rope wrong, and he could get loose. He remembered that he had answered “front.” Maybe he'd be able to use his hands.

  It was a wrong assumption. Dark as the night was MacDonald skillfully tied the cord around his wrists, lapped it under his belt, and finished by tying his ankles. He stuffed Lorenz's hat under his head and gently laid the blanket over him before melting away. Damn, thought Lorenz, someone that big shouldn't be able to move that quietly. And don't think about the Big Bastard being kind. It's a trick, he reminded himself. He closed his eyes against the stars and the slowly moving moon.

  Later he heard MacDonald roll into the bedding beside him. He knew Rolfe was now on guard, but he hadn't heard MacDonald wake him, or heard Rolfe leave. I must be getting soft, he thought, and stillness closed his mind again. It was safe here and now was the time to rest.

  Chapter 5: The Journey Home

  He rested so deeply the soft light of dawn failed to rouse him as it did the others. It was Rolfe banging the coffee pot and building the fire that nudged him awake. MacDonald was pulling on his boots, a grin cutting across the wide face, “Good morrow, laddie, and did ye sleep well?”

  Lorenz blinked his eyes against the rapidly expanding light, but did not answer. He forced himself upward and shook his head, clasping and unclasping his hands. MacDonald reached over and undid the rope. Lorenz rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation and tugged his boots on. Young James roared away in the direction of the willows while Martin mumbled, “Guten morgen,” and followed James. Lorenz stood. Except for the needles exploding in his feet, he felt fine. He and MacDonald headed in the same direction as James and Martin. He had to figure out a plan to prevent being tied tonight.

  After rinsing their hands in the river, Martin headed towards the camp to fix breakfast, and MacDonald led the way back to the sleeping area. “We twill pack up the sleeping gear,” he commanded.

  When they finished storing the articles, Lorenz noticed that Young James was once again searching for cow chips and any dry wood. Martin was busy at breakfast, and Rolfe was resting against one of the wagon wheels. MacDonald indicated a spot for him to sit and Lorenz decided it was time to try his plan.

  “What am ah supposed to do, just twiddle my thumbs?” he asked. He hadn't meant for it to sound sassy, but he didn't know how else to start out. Sass wasn't going to get him anywhere with the Big Bastard. “Didn't mean it like that,” he mumbled as MacDonald looked at him. “Ah doan like just sittin' around.” It sounded lame, but it was the best he fish out. “Ah just meant, maybe ah could do somethin' and maybe not cause so much trouble. Hit's been a long time since ah saw Mama,” he finished.

  MacDonald's eyes were surprisingly hard. “Are ye tellin' me that ye have had a change of heart?”

  Lorenz lifted his chin. “Ah was just wonderin'. Iffen ah did, would things be different?”

  “Twould what be different?”

  “That's what ah'm askin'. How'd it be different iffen ah follow all of yore rules?”

  MacDonald pushed his hat back. “And, of course, ye twill be giving me yere word on this behavior?” he asked softly, the rolling r more pronounced than usual.

  “Ah ain't givin' nothin'.” No point in lying when he wasn't going to be believed anyways. “Just wanted to know iffen it would be different. Would there be as many rules?”

  “As to different, I canna say. The rules would be the same as tis the way we live. Mayhap ye would even begin to ken why.”

  As usual, the Big Bastard wasn't making sense. “Ah mean are yu'll goin' stand over me every time ah fart or take a piss?”

  “Ye have such a novel way of putting words together, laddie.”

  Lorenz flushed. “Forget it.”

  “Nay, bide a moment. Are ye saying ye wish to try being part of this group? Mayhap ye are even glad to be going to the House of yere mither?”

  “Well, ah was just, uh, uh, ah mean, just wonderin'.” Lorenz let the words hang. Sometimes it was better to let people put words in your mouth. That way they believed you had said what they wanted to hear.

  “And what do ye expect out of this behavior?” The Big Bastard wasn't giving him credit for anything.

  “Ah could at least scratch Dandy's nose when he wants me to without being whomped on. Dandy doan know nothin' about rules.”

  MacDonald chuckled. “Ye twill push, won't ye, laddie? Very well, go help Martin with breakfast, and I twill dwell on what ye have asked.”

  Lorenz let out his breath. He was going to be at his best and by tomorrow night, no one would pay him any heed. He smiled at Martin when he reached the cooking area. “Ah'm supposed to help. What do yu'll want done?”

  Martin was shaping biscuits and slapping them in the Dutch oven. “Them spuds need peeled and cut up for fries. We need at least eight or ten.” He pointed to the tailboard let down to serve as a table.

  “Right,” responded Lorenz and began carving away. He was on the third one when he heard the heavy footfalls and dropped the knife. Damn, he'd forgotten the stupid rule about weapons, and Big Bastard was sure to consider the knife a weapon.

  “Turn and face me,” came the command.

  Lorenz took a deep breath and turned, defiance settling into his eyes and mouth. “Ah wuz only doin' what Martin tole me to do,” he protested.

  “Walk.” MacDonald pointed toward the wagon.

  “That knife wuz part of the gear ah helped clean up last night.”

  MacDonald's face remained stern, but something changed in his demeanor. “Then the whiskey dulled my brain more than I thought; however, twas nay my intent to set ye up for a burning. Stand away from the knife now.”

  Lorenz moved to the side waiting for the huge fist to lash out at him, not really believing the man would not do something to settle the 'rules' more firmly in his mind. To his amazement, MacDonald picked up the knife and continued to pare the potatoes.

  “Martin,” asked MacDonald, “tis there nay else that Lorenz can do?”

  Martin had heaped coals over and under the Dutch oven and was busy tending the bacon. “Ja, he can pour off the water on the beans for tonight and fill it with fresh water. I'll put it on when we finish frying the potatoes. Let me know when the spuds are ready.”

  The next three days blended into a repeat of the first with Lorenz seated beside Martin and Young James despairing over his demoted status on the long, dusty way toward the ranches. Lorenz knew that Martin once again trusted him, but the Big Bastard continued to watch his every m
ove, nor was he left untied at night. Lorenz planned to make his move on this, the fourth night, and carefully memorized their movements. He knew when and where the two men might put down their rifles or relax their eyes just for a moment. Lorenz didn't worry about Martin and Young James. Martin was not a fighter, and James was like his nickname: young. On the second night they had camped early, giving Martin and Lorenz an opportunity to romp in the water. Later they lazed on the bank before starting supper. Lorenz had expressed surprise that MacDonald was using the soap again. Martin merely laughed. It was then Lorenz realized that Martin didn't bother to figure out other men. Martin would never be a hunter or dangerous man like his father. It would make tonight all that much easier.

  Since they had gone through the bacon and eggs, Rolfe would disappear in the late afternoon and return with his kill. Lorenz couldn't figure out how the man could bag an elusive deer or antelope so easily at the wrong time of day. MacDonald, however, seemed to think it natural. After three days of filling his belly, Lorenz knew he was fit to travel.

  Lorenz waited until he and Martin were cleaning up from the evening meal. They had stopped later in the day with the thought of reaching their homes tomorrow. Night had blanketed the earth and the moon and stars competed to give light to the shadow time. Rolfe had headed up the small rise of ground towards the road to start his first patrol, and the Big Bastard was busy putting away the improvised oven. As usual Martin had left his rifle wedged by the wagon seat.

  Lorenz stacked the tin plates into the Dutch oven to carry them to what was left of the river and use the sand creeping up to the edge as a scouring agent. As he drew even with the wagon wheel, he used his free right hand to pull himself upward, turned, and balanced the Dutch oven on the top of the wheel as he leaned against the wagon and pulled Martin's rifle free.

  He dropped to the ground as the Dutch oven and contents clattered down and broke into a run for the horses. Lorenz figured he had less than two minutes to remove the hobbles and bolt.

  He figured wrong. Just as he removed the hobbles from Dandy, MacDonald charged into view, a rifle clutched in his right hand. Lorenz scooped up the rifle he had placed at his feet and stood aiming the rifle at the big man's middle.