Gone to Texas

by Jason Manning

  They reviewed the plan once more before Christopher set out on foot, knife and pistol in his belt, rifle in hand. He crossed the road and clambered over the wooden fence and started off across the field. The distant house was still ablaze with lamplight. A hundred yards from his destination he got down on his belly and crawled the rest of the way. Reaching the north side of the house, he found the doors to the root cellar closed, but without a padlock. The doors had never been locked to his knowledge, but it had occurred to him that if the doors were secured for some reason, the whole plan would go up in smoke.

  He tried to be careful opening one of the big wooden doors, but the iron hinges were old and rusted, and made such a loud, screeching complaint that the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He froze, certain that the whole of Madison Country had heard the sound. There was a window just to the right of the cellar doors, one of the dining room windows, and he watched it for a moment, expecting one of the Vickers boys to appear there. But no one did. There was no sign of life in the house. No sound at all. That worried him. Maybe they had slipped away in the night. Maybe they had taken his mother with them as a hostage. Or maybe . . . maybe she was dead. He cursed himself silently, and tried to put a short rein on his imagination.

  Negotiating the steep wooden steps, he decided to leave the door open, rather than risk making more noise by trying to shut it behind him. At the bottom of the steps he crouched for a moment, giving his eyes time to adjust to the darkness underneath the house. The pungent aroma of old wood and older earth filled his nostrils. Straight ahead, if he remembered correctly, was one of the big piers which supported the house, a ten-foot length of hickory tree trunk buried four feet into the ground, so big that he could have just reached all the way around it with both arms. Locating the pier, he groped for and found a lantern hanging from a stout peg. He thanked the good Lord it was there, as it had been for as long as he could remember. But he could not take these things for granted—the cellar door being unlocked, the lantern being on the peg—not tonight, with so much at stake.

  Taking the lantern from the leg, he jostled it. Yes! It was at least half full of coal oil. Christopher used a sulphur match he had gotten from Sheriff Ainsley and lighted the lantern. Keeping it turned down low, he proceeded further under the house. In the vicinity of another wooden staircase, this one located at the center of the house, he found a broken chair, an old armoire with one door missing, several small casks, a rack containing a half-dozen bottles of wine. He climbed halfway up the stairs. The hatch opened into the center hall of the house. He listened hard, hoping to hear something which would tell him where in the house his mother and the Vickers brothers were located. But still there was no sound. He fought the urge to go through the hatch. Anxiety was tying his insides into knots, souring his stomach, parching his throat. Waiting—that was the hardest part. Still, he had to wait. Nathaniel would make his move at daybreak. That was less than an hour away.

  Sitting on the steps, rifles across his knees, Christopher put the lantern out, fearing that its light might be seen leaking around the edges of the hatch. There he remained, head in hands, in the black womb of the cellar, wishing for the dawn.

  Chapter 13

  It was just after dawn when the Vickers boys heard an odd sound coming from somewhere in front of the house. They were in the front parlor, and Rebecca was with them. Morgan and Joshua had taken turns standing guard. Joshua had slept when given the chance, stretched out on the horsehair sofa. But Morgan hadn't been able to sleep. He spent most of the night pacing the floor, and when he got tired of pacing he sat in a wingback chair and glowered at Rebecca, or stared out the windows. Rebecca sat in another chair all night, almost afraid to move, tired but too worried to sleep. Worried for Christopher's sake. As for Prissy, Morgan had locked her in the smokehouse. He didn't need two women to keep an eye on. Neither did he need two hostages.

  The odd sound was a creaking noise, and though both brothers rushed to the window and peered cautiously out, they could see nothing that would explain it. Finally, Morgan turned abruptly and crossed the room to where Rebecca was sitting, his rifle leveled at her.

  "Come on," he said hoarsely.

  She stood, haughtily ignoring the rifle. He motioned to the door to the hall and she preceded them out of the room and to the front door. Morgan jabbed the barrel of the rifle into the small of her back.

  "Don't do anything foolish," he warned.

  "I would give you the same advice," she said, "except it's too late."

  She opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. Morgan followed right behind her, while Joshua remained just inside the doorway, rifle held at the ready.

  Nathaniel's long frame was draped in a rocking chair at the end of the porch. Morgan made a funny sound and swung his rifle around to aim it at the old leatherstocking.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  Nathaniel didn't stop rocking. "Nathaniel Jones is the name. That happens to be my daughter you're hiding behind."

  Smelling a trap, Morgan swept a suspicious glance about him.

  "I'm all alone," said Nathaniel. "And unarmed."

  "It's a trick," said Joshua from the doorway.

  "No tricks. I just want to talk."

  "You know who he is?" Joshua asked his brother. "He's the one they call Flintlock."

  "Flintlock Jones?" Morgan's smile resembled the snarl of a wolf.

  "He's as dangerous as a sack full of cottonmouths," declared Joshua.

  "This old man?" scoffed Morgan.

  "Don't underestimate him."

  "Stop telling me what to do. I'm sick and tired of you telling me what to do, Joshua!"

  "Your nerves are in poor shape," was Nathaniel's amiable observation. "Must've passed a restless night."

  "Get up," growled Morgan.

  Nathaniel did as he was told.

  "Hold your arms out away from your sides and turn around. Move slow, old-timer, like molasses in wintertime."

  Nathaniel complied. Morgan looked for a pistol or a knife secreted in the back of the frontierman's leather belt. But Nathaniel had told the truth. He was unarmed.

  "This snake's got no teeth," said Morgan, chuckling. He felt a lot better about things now. All night he'd been worried about the Madison County men camped across the road, figuring that at dawn they would raid the house in an attempt to rescue Rebecca Groves. Instead, here was this old man, and without any weapons, to boot!

  Nathaniel smiled reassuringly at Rebecca. "Are you well, Becky? Have they hurt you?"

  "No, I'm fine."

  "What were you going to do if we had hurt her?" sneered Morgan.

  "You don't want to know."

  Morgan laughed. He thought this old leatherstocking was just all bluff and bluster. He didn't hear the steel menace in Nathaniel's soft-spoken reply.

  "They killed Isaac, Father," said Rebecca, and just the mention of Isaac's name brought tears welling up in her eyes. "Prissy and I buried him."

  "Killing old men and hiding behind a woman's skirts." Nathaniel shook his head. "Not what I'd expect to see from brave men."

  "I don't cotton to standing out here in the open," said Morgan. "You want to talk, come on inside. Of course, I won't guarantee you'll come out again."

  "Don't require guarantees," said Nathaniel, and went into the house.

  Once in the hallway with the door closed, Morgan allowed Rebecca to go to her father, who put a comforting arm around her shoulders. Morgan kept them covered while Joshua stayed by the door, looking outside. He was thinking that maybe Nathaniel had been sent in to distract them, giving the Madison County sheriff and his posse comitatus the opportunity to slip in unseen.

  Having logged first impressions of the Vickers brothers, Nathaniel decided that Joshua was the more dangerous of the two. He used his head, while Morgan was ruled by emotion, which meant Morgan could make mistakes in the heat of the moment. Nathaniel was counting on it.

  He was also counting on Christopher being ready to act,
waiting beneath the hatch to the cellar, twenty feet down the hall. But he dared not even glance in that direction.

  "You wanted to talk," said Morgan gruffly. "Then say what you came to say."

  "I hear tell you're waiting for Christopher."

  "He's going to die. He's the reason our cousin Emily took her own life. And he turned our brother Adam into a cripple."

  "That was a fair fight. But I didn't come here to argue the point. I came to tell you that if you want Christopher you'll have to go to Texas."

  Morgan was stunned. Joshua looked around from the door, sparing his brother a quick glance, then fastening his gaze on Nathaniel, searching the frontiersman's craggy, weathered face—looking for the truth.

  "Texas!" exclaimed Morgan. "I don't believe you."

  "It's true. He stopped off at Boonesboro a few days ago and told me Texas was where he's bound. He's on his way down the Natchez Trace by now."

  "You're lying," declared Morgan hotly. "If he was as close as Boonesboro he would have come here to see his mother."

  "No. He was too ashamed to face you, Becky. Ashamed of being thrown out of West Point. Which is why I'm here. He asked me to tell you. He said he knew it was the coward's way, but he couldn't help it. He could face a hundred Adam Vickers, but he couldn't face you."

  Morgan stared at the frontiersman, befuddled by this unexpected turn of events, and trying to think it through. Nathaniel plunged ahead, sensing that he had a slight advantage, and not wanting to give either one of them much time for thinking. He was beginning to wonder if there wasn't a chance of getting out of this without bloodshed.

  "So you can see you're in a bad spot, boys. You might as well give yourselves up."

  "Not a chance," said Morgan.

  "What are you worried about?" asked Nathaniel. "All you've done so far is kill an old Negro."

  "Father!" exclaimed Rebecca, aghast and affronted by the offhanded way Nathaniel had referred to Isaac's murder.

  The frontiersman studiously ignored her. "You boys come from an important family. You can buy justice. I doubt if you'd wind up paying for that crime."

  "Maybe he's right," Joshua told his brother. He had been predisposed since yesterday to leave, and he was just as willing to go now.

  "Of course, all bets will be off if you kill a white man—or woman," continued Nathaniel. "What other choice do you have?"

  "We'll just ride away," said Morgan, by way of testing the waters.

  Nathaniel shook his head. "Those Madison County men out there won't let that happen, I'm afraid. They came here for a fight."

  "They'll let us go if we've got your daughter for a hostage."

  Nathaniel's smile was deceptive. There was steel resolve behind it. Morgan didn't see it, but Joshua did.

  "You'll have to kill me first," said the old leatherstocking quietly.

  "I can handle that," promised Morgan. He felt trapped, and was ready to strike out, regardless of the consequences.

  "Tripoli!" shouted Nathaniel.

  He threw Rebecca to the floor and draped his body over hers, a human shield.

  In that instant Christopher burst out of the cellar, throwing the hatch back. Morgan swung his rifle around and triggered it from hip level. Christopher fired at the same time, only halfway out of the hatch. Morgan's bullet cracked as it passed, missing him by inches. Christopher's aim was marginally better. His bullet struck Morgan in the thigh. The impact kicked the leg out from under Morgan. He toppled like a cut tree. Cursing, he dispensed with the empty rifle and yanked a pistol from his belt. Nathaniel was near enough to kick it out of his hand. The pistol skittered across the floor.

  As he cleared the root cellar hatchway, Christopher discarded his own rifle and brandished a pistol. Now that Morgan was down and disarmed, he turned his attention to Joshua. But Joshua had already made up his mind to flee. He was out the front door before Christopher could line up a shot. Nathaniel leaped to his feet and gave chase.

  Seeing his brother turn tail and run brought a roar of rage from Morgan as he struggled to get up. He drew a knife from its belt sheath and started toward Christopher, dragging his wounded leg, leaving smears of bright scarlet blood on the floor.

  Christopher was astonished. Was Morgan Vickers mad? Didn't he see the pistol in Christopher's hand?

  "Drop the knife."

  Morgan kept coming.

  "Drop it or I'll shoot."

  "This is for my brother," rasped Morgan, coming on.

  "Shoot him, Christopher!" cried Rebecca.

  "You're a fool, Vickers," said Christopher, taking careful aim, arm fully extended, body turned slightly, the pistol rock steady in his hand.

  "Go on and shoot, you coward!" snarled Morgan.

  Still, Christopher hesitated.

  Rebecca lunged for the pistol Nathaniel had kicked out of Morgan's hand. She whirled and aimed it at Morgan, pulling the trigger at almost point-blank range.

  The hammer fell into the pan. Powder flashed, but the pistol did not discharge. Suddenly Morgan had turned on her, raising the knife.

  Christopher lowered the pistol a few degrees off the horizontal and squeezed the trigger. The pistol spoke, spewing flame. Morgan cried out as the bullet struck his good leg. He lurched forward, falling on his face. Screaming incoherently now, mad with rage, he started to crawl, making for Christopher again. Christopher stepped forward and kicked the knife out of his hand. Morgan tried to grab his leg, but Christopher eluded him, stepping back, and Morgan let out a roar of frustration that shook the rafters before he lost consciousness.

  Outside, Joshua leaped off the porch and headed for the stables and his horse. He looked back once, and was alarmed to see Nathaniel in hot pursuit, astonished by the speed and agility of the old leatherstocking. In a glance he could tell he wasn't going to reach the stables, so he turned, bringing his rifle to bear. Already Nathaniel was close enough to knock the barrel aside just as Joshua triggered the rifle. Nathaniel plowed into him at full speed, driving a forearm into Joshua's face. Joshua lost his grip on the rifle as he went down. He hit the ground hard, and Nathaniel landed on top of him, planting a knee in his sternum, and Joshua would have cried out in pain as a rib cracked, except that his mouth was filled with blood, and all the air had been punched out of his lungs. Nathaniel hit him in the face again, this time with a fist that fell with the force of an anvil, and Joshua passed out, strangling on his own blood and teeth.

  Nathaniel rolled the unconscious man over on his belly after plucking a pistol from his belt. Then he turned and raced back to the house. As he reached the porch, Rebecca and Christopher emerged. Nathaniel let out a gusting sigh of relief to see them unscathed. The distant drumbeat of horses at the gallop drew his attention to the lane. Ainsley and his boys were charging through the gate. In no time at all they were checking their horses in front of the house, and Nathaniel climbed up onto the porch to join his daughter and grandson—and to avoid the drifting dust churned up by the iron-shod hooves of the seven ponies.

  Ainsley spared Joshua a quick glance. "Has he crossed the river?"

  "No," said Nathaniel.

  "Where's the other one?"

  "Inside."

  "What about him? Is he dead?"

  "He's alive," said Christopher.

  Ainsley dismounted. On his way across the porch to enter the house he paused to give Christopher a funny look.

  "Ordinarily, I'm not one to encourage killing," remarked the Madison Country sheriff. "But in the case of these Vickers boys, you might do better to just finish 'em off."

  He went inside, followed by several of his men—the other three crossed the yard to collect Joshua.

  Christopher glanced solemnly at Nathaniel.

  "You know," he said, "I think he might be right. I had the chance. That one in there came to me with a knife. I could have shot him through the heart."

  "Why didn't you?"

  Christopher shook his head. "I just couldn't. All he had was a knife. But I have a feeling I'll li
ve to regret it."

  They laid the Vickers boys out on the parlor floor. Ainsley sent one of his men to fetch the doctor—old Doc Mattson, who had delivered Christopher, as he had almost every other child born in Madison County since the turn of the century. Before turning his attention to the two wounded men, Mattson gave Rebecca a once-over and sternly ordered her to bed.

  "Ah's been tryin' to tell her she needs rest," said Prissy, vindicated. She had been fussing over Rebecca ever since her release from the smokehouse. "But she's sho' mule-headed."

  "I'm fine," insisted Rebecca.

  "You're not," said Mattson. "I don't want to see her on her feet until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest," he told Christopher.

  "You can count on me, sir."

  With a curt nod, Mattson entered the parlor. Prissy and Christopher escorted Rebecca to her room. She protested all the way. Nathaniel stepped out onto the porch. His horse, along with Christopher's roan, had been retrieved from the woods across the road, and the frontiersman rummaged through his belongings, contained in a gunnysack tied to the threadbare saddle, for his pipe and tobacco. Finding them, he repaired to the rocking chair on the porch, where he packed his pipe, fired it up, and rocked gently, savoring the bite of the pungent tobacco and letting the tension drain from his body.

  Christopher came outside to join him a little while later.

  "I told her about Texas."

  "You might have waited a day or two. She's been through a lot."

  "I just couldnt' wait any longer, Grandpa. I had to get it off my chest."

  "How did she take it?"

  "Better than I expected. She was disappointed in me for fighting the duel and getting thrown out of West Point, of course. But not too disappointed. I don't think she ever really wanted me to become a soldier."