Gone to Texas

by Jason Manning

  "Even Mrs. Groves?"

  "Why not? She won't mind. She loves niggers. Don't you, ma'am? Set them all free. Pays them a wage for their work."

  "I would much prefer being locked in the smokehouse with them to staying in this house with the likes of you," she declared.

  Prissy returned with the coffeepot, holding it with both hands and using her apron to keep from burning herself on the handle. She filled Morgan's cup, then Joshua's, and came to Rebecca just as Isaac appeared to place another cup on the table.

  "I don't care for any, Prissy."

  "It's mighty good coffee, Miss 'Becca."

  "No thank you."

  "Now, you come on and try a little of dis coffee."

  "No, Prissy."

  "Miss 'Becca, you gots to try some of dis . . . "

  Isaac had taken the empty plates from in front of the brothers. As he turned away from the table, one of the plates slipped from his gnarled fingers and shattered on the floor. Rebecca's nerves were on edge; she nearly jumped out of her skin. Morgan stood up so suddenly that he overturned his chair. He snatched his pistol up from the table. Seeing that both Vickers boys were looking in Isaac's direction, Prissy let the horse pistol she had kept concealed beneath the apron drop into Rebecca's lap. Rebecca was so startled that she nearly let the pistol fall to the floor. She caught it between her knees. Prissy beamed at her and moved away, to descend on Isaac like an avenging angel.

  "You clumsy fool. I shoulda knowed better than to let you handle the china. Now jis' look at what you's done. Go get the broom and clean up dis here mess. Land's sakes!"

  Completely cowed, Isaac ducked out of the room, Morgan righted his chair, belted his pistol, and sat down, disgusted, glowering at them all, as though daring anyone to indicate by the slighest change of expression that they were amused by his show of nerves.

  The horse pistol lay heavy in Rebecca's lap. It had belonged to Jonathan, but she'd kept it anyway, in a wardrobe in her bedroom. She had never had occasion to use it, and she was reluctant to do so now. But maybe Prissy had the right idea. Maybe this was the only way to save Christopher's life. Prissy was watching her—Rebecca could feel her eyes, but she kept her own gaze fixed on Morgan Vickers at the other end of the table. She could shoot one of them, and with any luck the three hands standing over against that wall would see their chance and jump the other. One word from Prissy and they would jump.

  "Where did that old man go?" asked Morgan.

  Rebecca glanced at Prissy, and Prissy's eyes were pleading with her to act.

  What was Prissy up to?

  The sound of a horse cantering past the house . . .

  Suddenly Rebecca understood. Prissy and Isaac had devised a scheme of their own. At some point, when she was supposed to be in the kitchen, Prissy had slipped up to Rebecca's bedroom to get the pistol. Isaac had dropped the plate as a diversion, to give Prissy the opportunity to hand Rebecca the weapon. And now that courageous old man, in spite of his fear of horses, was riding for help. And Prissy—Prissy expected her to use that pistol. Now.

  Both the Vickers boys were on their feet at the sound of the horse. Rebecca was up, too, the horse pistol held in both hands. She aimed it at Morgan.

  "That black bastard!" said Morgan, snatching up his rifle, not looking at Rebecca, unaware that she was armed. "I'll kill him!"

  "You'll do nothing of the sort," she said, quite calmly.

  Chapter 12

  Morgan Vickers saw the pistol then—and froze. But Joshua kept his wits about him. Joshua—the calm and rational one, thinking on his feet, quick to act, so quick that before Rebecca knew what was happening he had grabbed Prissy. Prissy was the nearest. He locked an arm around her throat and put his own pistol to her head.

  "Please drop it, ma'am," he said in the same tone of voice he would have used to ask her to pass the bread.

  How ludicrous, thought Rebecca, for him to be so well-mannered at a moment like this. Please and ma'am! The whole scene struck her as so unreal that she wondered if she was dreaming.

  "Doan you do it, Miss 'Becca," said Prissy. "You go ahead and shoot, and doan you fret none about me."

  "Don't make me shoot her," said Joshua.

  Rebecca threw the pistol onto the table.

  With a growl Morgan bolted from the room. Joshua shoved Prissy away, grabbed the horse pistol from the table, and collected his own rifle, before following his brother.

  Rebecca couldn't move. She was frozen in place by the horror of what she had done. Prissy was standing across the room, raising her arms to the ceiling, her face upturned, and she was beseeching the Lord Almighty in a hoarse whisper, asking God to deliver Isaac, and Rebecca knew only a miracle could save the old man now. God helped those who helped themselves, anyway—Rebecca was overwhelmed with guilt.

  "What we gwine do, Miss 'Becca?" asked one of the hands.

  "Run," she said dully. "They'll kill us all. Run. Out the back way. Run and don't ever come back. There won't be anything to come back to."

  "But Miss 'Becca . . ."

  "Go! Now!"

  They ran—all except Prissy, who watched Rebecca sink heavily into a chair.

  "Go on, Prissy."

  "Ah ain't gwine, lessen you come, too."

  "I'm staying here. This is my home."

  "Mine, too. So Ah's stayin' with you."

  A rifle spoke. The sound lanced through Rebecca's heart like a knife, causing her such pain that she twisted in the chair, as thought she could feel the bullet tearing through her body, just as it was tearing through poor Isaac's.

  "I'm sorry," she sobbed, knowing Isaac was dead, knowing it as surely as she knew she was to blame for his death. For if she had done what had been expected of her . . . "I'm sorry."

  The Vickers boys returned. Morgan looked downright smug. The smell of gunpowder and death clung to him. When he saw Rebecca he remembered what she had done and his features contorted in a sudden hot rage and he struck her, the back of his hand across her face, and the impact of the blow rocked her back in the chair. Prissy flew at him, hitting him like a freight train with her considerable bulk, and almost knocked him off his feet. But he recovered his balance and struck back, viciously, this time with a clenched fist, and Prissy went down. He raised his rifle, wanting to crack her skull open with the stock, but Rebecca was out of her chair, throwing herself across the fallen Prissy, shielding her, before he could deliver the blow.

  "Don't do it," said Joshua.

  It was his brother's voice that stayed Morgan's hand, not Rebecca's intervention. The elder Vickers would have killed them both in his blinding wrath.

  "I won't be a party to killing a woman, Morgan," said Joshua. "So why don't you just lay down that rifle."

  Morgan lowered the rifle. Then he grabbed Rebecca roughly by the arm, his grip so tight that it would leave bruises, and hauled her to her feet.

  "I won't kill you," he sneered. "No, you'll live to stand over your son's grave."

  "No," she said, and it was as if the hate flowed out of him and into her, as though it were some kind of contagious disease that she contracted just by his touching her, because now, suddenly, she could understand what was going through him, and the desire for blood vengeance stirred her own blood.

  "No," she said softly, her eyes blazing. "It's your grave I'll stand over, Morgan Vickers."

  He laughed, a little nervous all of a sudden, and a little shaken by something only he could detect lurking deep in her eyes.

  "The others," said Joshua. "They've bolted."

  "Doesn't matter."

  "It does matter. They'll fetch the sheriff."

  "To hell with the sheriff."

  "Groves won't come here now."

  "Yes he will," said Morgan. "He'll come on her account." He nodded at Rebecca, and he sounded very confident.

  "Let's get out of here, Morgan, This isn't working out. They'll hang us."

  "For what? For shooting a nigger in the back? Hang a Vickers for that? Not likely."
<
br />   "Let's go. We'll get Groves some other time."

  "No!" barked Morgan, tired of arguing. "Go on. Run, if you're of a mind to. I didn't know you were a coward. But if you are, then I don't need you."

  "You know better than that."

  "Do I? You're sure talking like a yellow coward."

  A muscle worked in Joshua's jaw, but he maintained his composure. "I'll stay," he muttered.

  Morgan leered at Rebecca. "Since all your bucks ran out on you, lady, I guess you'll have to be the one to bury that old man. He's out yonder, lying in the road. But that's only fair, come to think of it, since you're to blame for his getting killed. That was a stupid thing to do. I warned you. But you just wouldn't listen, would you?"

  "Let go of me."

  He let her go. She turned away and helped Prissy to her feet. Prissy's lip was cut and bleeding.

  "I'm sorry, Prissy," she said. "I . . . I just froze. I guess I wasn't prepared to kill a man." She looked coldly at Morgan. "But I am now."

  Morgan laughed. Joshua didn't join him. He watched Rebecca solemnly, warily, sensing that hers was no idle threat.

  Sundown caught Christopher and Nathaniel some miles shy of Elm Tree. They decided to push on. Christopher was so sick and tired of worrying about how his mother would react to the news of the duel and his dismissal from the Military Academy and to his ideas about Texas that he just wanted to get it over with.

  They heard the galloping horse before they saw the rider, emerging from the indigo gloom of fast-falling night as he charged hell-bent for election up the road toward them.

  "I didn't think we had a problem with Indians in Kentucky anymore," said Nathaniel. "But that feller sure looks like he's being chased by a passel of hostile Shawnees."

  "Something's wrong," said Christopher. "He's burning the tallow off that horse."

  They checked their mounts and waited for the rider to reach them. He turned out to be just a lad, not yet old enough to grow side-whiskers. Pulling rein so hard that his lathered horse sat down on its haunches in a pale cloud of drifting dust, he gaped at Christopher and Nathaniel with wild eyes.

  "One of you be Christopher Groves?"

  "I am."

  "Lordy, I'm right glad I found you. We figured you'd be coming down this here road."

  "We? Who are you?"

  "Billy Steptoe's the name. The Madison County sheriff sent me to find you. He said to ride all the way to Maysville if I had to."

  "But how did you know I was coming? What's the matter? My mother—has something happened to my mother?"

  "I don't rightly know . . . "

  "What do you mean you don't know?" snapped Christopher.

  "Settle down, boy," said Nathaniel. "Billy, why don't you tell us what you do know?"

  "Yessir. The sheriff and six or seven men rode out to Elm Tree a couple hours ago. They were armed to the teeth. I dunno why. The sheriff just told me to tell you, Mr. Groves, that one of your ma's hands showed up at his place this afternoon with a story about two men with rifles holding everybody prisoner at Elm Tree."

  "Two men? What two men? Why?"

  "We won't find out here," said Nathaniel. "Let's go."

  By the time they reached the vicinity of Elm Tree the old leatherstocking and his grandson had left Billy Steptoe behind. The boy's horse had bottomed out. They spotted a campfire up ahead, beneath the trees, close by the road. A black shape separated suddenly from the night shadows and loomed in their path, blocking the narrow road, appearing so abruptly that Christopher let out a shout of alarm and groped for the pistol in his belt.

  "Who goes there?" boomed the big shape.

  "Easy, Christopher," said Nathaniel, and Christopher had a hunch his grandfather had known this man was lurking in the brush even before he had stepped out into the road. Though the night was clear and the stars were out and a three-quarter moon was just now beginning to rise above the horizon, it was black as pitch here on the tree-shaded lane, and Christopher could scarcely see the ground, much less distinguish anything about the man blocking their path. But Flintlock Jones still had the eyes of a cat.

  "I'm Nathaniel Jones," said the frontiersman. "This is Christopher Groves. We're looking for the sheriff. So take a deep breath and ease your finger off that trigger."

  "Sorry, Mr. Jones." The man was contrite. "Reckon I'm a little nervous."

  "Well, young Billy Steptoe's about a quarter of a mile behind us. Whatever you do, don't shoot him when he gets here."

  "No, sir. I sure won't. Pardon me, sir, but aren't you the feller folks call Flintlock?"

  "I am. It's a name I don't cotton to, I must admit. But there's not much I can do about it."

  "I'm right glad you're with us, Mr. Jones."

  "Under the circumstances," said Nathaniel grimly, "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

  "The sheriff's over by the fire."

  They rode on. Six men stood or sat around the crackling fire. From here they could look across the lane, past the fence marking the boundary of Elm Tree, under the sweeping limbs of an ancient pecan tree, and across a field of excellent graze to the house on a slight rise about three hundred yards away. Lamplight gleamed in some of the windows.

  It was all Christopher could do to refrain from kicking the weary roan horse into a gallop and making straight for the house and his mother. But he didn't. If he did something stupid like that somebody could get killed. There was a fine line between audacity and foolish impetuosity, and the difference in this case might be his mother's life or death.

  A man approached them as they dismounted. At the very edge of the firelight, Christopher could distinguish this man's spare frame and angular features. He looked worried, which did nothing for Christopher's own peace of mind.

  "I'm Sheriff Ainsley. Might you be Christopher Groves?"

  "I am. And this is my grandfather, Nathaniel Jones."

  "The Nathaniel Jones. Flintlock Jones?" The man's ear-to-ear grin expressed vast relief. "My father talked quite a lot about you, Mr. Jones."

  "Your father was sheriff before you, wasn't he?"

  "That he was. Sheriff of Madison County for nigh on thirty years. Died a few years back. Guess the folks gave me the job on account of him. Of course, I could never fill his shoes. Never had cause to rue the job—until now."

  "I take that to mean you don't have much experience in such matters," said Christopher.

  "I'll be the first to admit it. The country's pretty settled now. We don't have too many problems anymore. Oh, an occasional horse stealing. Had a highwayman prowling these roads about a year ago, but some of the folks caught him and left his carcass hanging from a rope. This business here—" Ainsley shook his head. "Beats all I ever seen."

  Christopher grimaced. Sheriff Ainsley did not inspire much confidence.

  "Who are the two men?" asked Nathaniel.

  "The boy who came and told me about it said he thought their name was Vickers."

  "Vickers!" exclaimed Christopher.

  "They ain't from around these parts," said Ainsley. "Ain't no Vickers here in Madison County, unless you count Emily Cooper. As I recollect, that was her maiden name."

  Nathaniel nodded. "They're related. By the way, Emily Cooper's dead."

  "Dead? How? When? I knew she'd been gone from Hunter's Creek for a spell, but I . . . dead, you say? How did it happen?"

  "It's a long story. I'll tell you later." Nathaniel nodded at the five men near the fire. "Is that all the help you could get?"

  "I'll be honest with you, Mr. Jones. That's all would come."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean Rebecca Groves ain't the most popular person in Madison County. She done stirred up a lot of hard feelings when she went and freed those slaves of hers. Most folks around here just don't think she ought to have done such a thing."

  "What do you think about it, Sheriff?" asked Christopher, his tone less than cordial.

  "I'm here, ain't I? It's my job to be here."

  "But would you be
here if it wasn't?"

  "That's enough, Christopher."

  "They might as well go on home, Grandpa. We can't go charging up there and start a shooting spree."

  "I don't rightly know what to do," confessed Ainsley. "I rode up there this afternoon to try to talk them into giving themselves up."

  "How did that work out?" asked Nathaniel.

  "They said they were waiting for Mr. Groves here. Then they fired a shot over my head."

  "Well, there it is," said Christopher. "There's only one thing to do. I'll go in alone and give myself up to them, if they'll release my mother in exchange."

  "There's bound to be a better way," said Nathaniel, gazing thoughtfully across the road and the field at the distant house.

  "The boys and I have been discussing it all evening," said Ainsley. "We were thinking we might could sneak up there under cover of darkness and get a good shot at the two of them. But they're dangerous men. The boy told me they done killed one of the servants. An old man. Don't recall his name . . . "

  "Must be Isaac," said Christopher, and a chill shot down his spine. "If they'll shoot a harmless old man they'll shoot a woman. I've got to go, Grandpa. There's no other way."

  "They'd kill you, son," said Ainsley.

  "Better me than her."

  "You're forgetting one thing," said Nathaniel. "Your mother would never walk away if you were in danger, Christopher. They'd have to kill her first." He shook his head. "No. I can't let you do it."

  "We've got to do something!"

  "We will. I've got an idea. Might just work." He put a hand on Christopher's shoulder. "But it will require a cool head and steady nerves. Can I rely on you?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. This is what we'll do . . . "

  It proved to be one of the longest nights of Christopher's life. He had to wait until a couple of hours before daybreak, when the moon had set, to make his move, according to Nathaniel's plan. The frontiersman suggested that he get some sleep. Ainsley and his men were rolled up in their blankets for some shut-eye, leaving a single sentry to watch the road as well as the house. Nathaniel slept, too, and Christopher envied his grandfather the ability to do so. The plan was a risky one—especially for Nathaniel—yet that didn't seem to bother him, at least not enough to keep him awake. And Christopher knew that Nathaniel was just as concerned for his mother's well-being as he was. Still, Nathaniel slept. He had taught himself to do so, even in moments of crisis, a habit developed from many years in the forest stalking Indians, or being stalked by them. He awoke right on time, just as the moon descended and the darkness deepened.