by Mari Collier
The kid pondered that for a minute and shrugged. “My name's Lorenz,” he gritted out between clenched teeth.
“And?” inquired Franklin.
“Huh?”
“A man generally goes by two names, sometimes more. We need that for the record. First and last name, please.”
The gray eyes studied him. It was not slowness that stayed the boy's tongue. Franklin suspected he was hiding something. The boy shrugged. “Some call me Kid Lorenz.”
Franklin snapped the fan to hide a smile. Now he recognized the warning twitch in the back of his mind. The name was from an old handbill. What Franklin didn't like was the way MacDonald and Rolfe had straightened. The last thing he wanted was trouble from those two. He did not take lightly the tales of MacDonald breaking bones while Rolfe carved away with his bowie knife. Right now, he needed to hear what the youth had to say before he brought up the old handbill. “Fine,” he repeated, “tell Mr. Mallory what happened.”
MacDonald stepped closer as if to hear the tale, but Franklin suspected he was studying the boy's features. Rolfe seemed to nod and returned to his writing. Franklin slid the bottle of ink over to Mallory and breathed easier as the boy began his recital of following Zale's trail out of Fort Davis down to Juarez and back. Franklin kept his eyes on the big man and on Rolfe. MacDonald was still looking intently at the kid and Rolfe was still busy, but, damn it, the boy did bear a resemblance to Kasper Schmidt. Quietly he reached into his bottom drawer to pull out the old handbills, trying to listen and look at the wanted posters without distracting MacDonald. His mind kept worrying about what the big man would do. Should MacDonald decide the kid was his stepson, all hell could break loose.
What kind of man married a woman who had been taken by the Comanche and then goes into court sues for divorce by declaring her husband guilty of desertion, abandonment of wife and children, and attempted murder? To top it off, Rolfe and MacDonald were damn Yankees. They publicly stated to one and all that they had given their oath when entering this country, and by God, they'd not break it. Despised the two might be, but here they remained. The town had tried threats and burning them out. When a trio of townsmen attacked MacDonald while he was recovering from a war wound that crazy woman of his had taken MacDonald's cane and thrashed one assailant as MacDonald dispatched the other two. You'd think the Yankees would have the decency to stay out of town, but Rolfe and MacDonald drove in their cattle and sold them to the U. S. Calvary. They walked and rode where they pleased.
Halfway through the handbills, Franklin found what he knew was there. Rolfe interrupted his thoughts by laying the paper on his desk and asking, “Vill dot do it?”
Franklin scanned the writing, still half-listening to the boy's recital. The writing was surprisingly crisp and to the point, a neat up and down slanting script he would not have credited to someone who spoke English as Rolfe spoke it.
“Yes, as soon as Mr. Mallory has time, you can sign in his presence and he'll stamp it,” replied Franklin in a low voice.
The kid stopped talking long enough to glance at them. “Ah snuck up on 'em during the night. They didn't know ah was there, and ah waited for dawn's light and gut shot Zale when he was pissing.” The thinking of it brought pleasure to his eyes. “Then ah shot the others and watched Zale finish dyin'. He took some time dyin',” he ended with satisfaction. Then the boy glared at them and clenched his fists as though daring any of them to dispute his version.
In his own drawl, Mallory read back the recital. “Is that right?” he asked when he finished.
“Ah reckon,” came the kid's answer.
Mallory brought out his seal, inked it, stamped the page, wrote in the date, and then his name with a Gothic flourish. “All it needs now is your mark right here.” He turned the pages and pointed to the correct line where he had applied an X. He handed over the pen and said, “Y'all will need to dip the pen again.”
The youth bent over the paper and brushed the hair back behind his ears, took a deep breath, and grasped the pen. The hand was large and bony, a strong hand, showing the strength that would someday come with full growth. He bit at his lip and in printing wrote out LORENZ, scrawling the letters like a four or five-year-old child that has just learned to write. He shoved the paper back to Mallory, straightened and looked at the marshal. “Iffin that's all, ah want my guns.”
Franklin smiled. The lad was ready for a fight. He'd lose, but still he intended to fight. “I'm afraid I can't allow that. This handbill says that a Kid Lawrence is wanted for killing one Patrick O'Neal down in Wooden almost two years ago. You're a bit taller, but y'all were only thirteen then. It says y'all ride with Zale. Y'all didn't find his camp, y'all were just there. That's why it was so easy for y'all to shoot him, wasn't it? Y'all just blasted away in camp. Why? Is that reward sounding good in these days of slim pickings?”
“Like shit! Ah kilt him 'cause he did this to me,” the kid touched the jagged scar, “an' he kilt the woman that raised me. Ah tried to stop him and he damned near kilt me then. That was most three years back. 'Sides, that O'Neal bastard was alive when ah left.”
The kid was getting wild-eyed again, about ready to bolt. MacDonald wasn't helping matters as he had edged forward to occupy the space next to the desk and the kid. Rolfe had casually dropped his hands to his waist. Both men worried Franklin.
“Did y'all ride with Zale?” he asked.
“Hell no!”
“But y'all were at O'Neal's?”
“Yeah.”
Franklin knew why MacDonald and Rolfe were ready to fight and he didn't want it; not here. This was to be his last job and he wanted to leave it walking upright. He tried again.
“Y'all said Mr. O'Neal was still alive when y'all left. Do y'all have any proof or anyone to back up your story?
“Yeah, his kin was with me.”
“Who would that be?” Franklin asked the question, but he was watching the huge, looming bulk of MacDonald.
“Red, Red O'Neal. His paw's brother to that O'Neal, only his pa's worst.”
“Do you know where this Red O'Neal is now?”
“Ah reckon he's in Carson City. That's where he wuz goin'.”
“That presents a problem,” began Franklin. From the corner of his eye he could see MacDonald straighten.
The deep voice rumbled out, “Marshal, tis that an official handbill or mayhap one put out by the family?”
Small towns rarely covered the cost of printing and distributing wanted posters, but a wealthy family would gladly pay for the printing and shipping. Franklin knew he was losing even though he felt the kid was lying. “It's a family one,” he admitted, “but I'm sure the city of Wooden will concur with the charge.”
“Hell,” broke in Rolfe in disgust, “Wooden and dot whole county belong to O'Neal.”
The kid was startled. He wasn't sure why help was coming from two people he considered his enemies, but it calmed him. Maybe there was a chance of getting out of here.
“Mayhap ye could tell the marshal why ye were in Wooden,” suggested MacDonald.
“Ah was lookin' for my folks. We used to live thar, out of town a piece.”
MacDonald smiled. “Aye, and yere sister, Margareatha, twas she with ye? Do ye ken where she tis now?”
The boy stood open-mouthed and bewildered. He ran his eyes over the six-foot nine, two hundred and ninety-five pound giant in front of him. His questions had so rattled him that he answered without thinking. “She's in Carson City too.”
“Good Gar, nay with O'Neal?” The shocked question exploded.
The boy's eyes had hardened again. “Who the hell are y'all? Ah'd sure as hell remember somebody as big…” The voice trailed off and the grey eyes softened for the first time. “There was a big man who useta ride me on his shoulders.” He looked at MacDonald, emotions pulling at his face.
“Aye, 'twas yere grandfither. He tis nigh as tall as me.” MacDonald turned to the marshal. “As ye can see, he tis one of the laddies we have been looking
for. He twill go home with me, and I twill send a telegram to Mr. O'Neal in Nevada. Ye can find out if there are charges against the laddie, and the town twill nay have to bear the expense of his boarding.”
“And if the handbill is correct, then what? Are y'all bringing him in?” asked Marshal Franklin. He had considered the costs, but accommodating MacDonald would not endear him with the citizens.
MacDonald regarded the marshal for a moment and then spoke. “Tis the word of MacDonald ye have that I twill be bringing him back.”
“Go to hell!” the boy exploded. “Ah ain't goin nowhere with a bastard like y'll, and as far as this shittin' jail…”
A hard hand clamped down on his shoulder and stopped the tirade while propelling the kid toward the back door. “Ye twill excuse us, gentlemen. We twill be back directly,” stated MacDonald.
Franklin could only nod. Rolfe grinned and spat. Mallory stared at them bug-eyed. “And keep Mr. Mallory here for the signing of any papers if need be.” He shoved Lorenz out the backdoor and walked him away from the building.
Lorenz gave up struggling. He had felt the bones move when he resisted. That grip was worse than rawhide cutting into the skin. Survival was his only credo and winning a fight against this man wasn't possible. He noted the flat ground, the lumber yard to the left on the next block, and the backs of the buildings on this street. Everything else was open, exposed, no trees, no boulders, no fit place to hide if he ever got loose. It looked like he was going to listen or get belted again. I'll kill him like I did Zale, he thought.
“Now ye can turn, and we twill speak.” The pain left his shoulder and Lorenz turned.
“Weren't no women in there,” he protested to MacDonald.
MacDonald chuckled. “Aye, but I'd rather have my say where others are nay hearing, and from now on ye can nay call me those names.”
The boy was silent as the dark eyes regarded him, taking in the breadth of his shoulders. His head was held high and proud, grey eyes sparked like flint. The lad had a wide brow, thick, dark eyebrows and eye lashes, a straight nose, the lips were a bit thin set in taunt anger, and the cleft in his chin made him a masculine version of his mother. Except for the scar, he tis a likely looking laddie, thought MacDonald. “Do ye recall yere mither?” he asked.
Lorenz nodded and MacDonald continued speaking, “The Comanche took yere brithers. Have ye seen or heard of them?”
Lorenz simply glared at the big man. Since the big bastard didn't like the way he talked, he was damned if he was going to say anything.
MacDonald sighed. “I twas a scout over at Fort Davis ere the War. Yere mither twas at one of the Comanche camps the 2nd Dragoons attacked. She twas nigh starved for she would nay do things their way.” He grinned in remembrance. “She tis a stubborn woman.”
“Y'all git her out of there?” Curiosity about her well-being forced the words to spill out.
“Aye, that we did. Then I took her to yere eld, er, uncle's place. He twas in Texas searching for her. There tis a bond twixt twins that nay can break.”
“She's okay then?” Lorenz felt compelled to ask. Inside he was reeling. Uncle, what uncle? He couldn't remember any uncle. And his ma was double born. Some held that unnatural. “Why cain't ah just go to my ma's and uncle's then?”
The words came softly from the big man. “Ye are going home to yere mither. Nigh seven years hence, Mrs. Anna Lawrence did me the honor of becoming my wife and counselor.”
Lorenz felt the sickness rise inside. His ma was married to this lout. Gawd. He looked at MacDonald and knew that within hours he would have the shit beat out of him or worse. No, mustn't think about worse. He had to get away, but to run now was stupid. All he could do was glare at the man and wish him dead.
The voice continued, low words rumbling out of the deep chest. “We have a wee lassie, but nay a laddie. There twas one, but he died within a few minutes of birthing. Yere mither has claimed all these years that ye, Margareatha, and Daniel still lived.” He paused to give Lorenz a chance to speak and when no words came, he continued.
“From now on, ye twill call me Mr. MacDonald, and ye twill answer aye, sir, and nay, sir, to my questions. The same holds for when ye speak with Mr. Rolfe or any other man back there.”
“Why?” demanded Lorenz.
MacDonald leaned backward and smiled down. “Because tis one of my rules and ye twill nay disgrace me or yere mither with yere tongue.”
“What the hell does she have to do with my talkin'?”
“Dear Gar, where have ye been? Did yere sister nay teach ye about civilized behavior?”
The boy looked at him and grinned a quick, sardonic slash. If his ma was like that, it was his ticket out. MacDonald wouldn't dare take him home. “Ah weren't with Rity the whole time. Zale's Comancheros picked me up, and ah lived with them for years. Ah ran away when ah wuz old enough. Y'all cain't take someone like me back. Ma don't want me anyhow. She wants Daniel.”
“Ye twere with Zale?” MacDonald was surprised. “What of yere sister? Did they have her too?”
“Naw, some Injun horse came through where we wuz hidin' in the cornfield. Rity always could ride anythin'. Still can. She got on and rode to O'Neal's place for help.”
“Damn!” MacDonald exploded, and he eyed the youth in front of him. Which question should he ask first and would he receive an honest response? “Why did they let a wee laddie like ye live? Ye twere nay of any use to them.”
“Zale's woman found me. She'd just lost a kid and needed someone to suckle. Zale let her keep me.”
“And what happened to Margareatha?”
“She got to O'Neal's okay, but the bastard locked her up and then sent her to some Catholic nunnery down in San Antonio.”
“So, O'Neal twas lying. I kenned I should have gone with Rolfe and Kasper.” MacDonald clenched his fists. “Damn, all these years wasted.”
“Huh?”
“Yere Uncle Kasper and Mr. Rolfe went twice to O'Neal's place trying to find ye and Margareatha. O'Neal insisted that the Indians had taken yere elder brither, yere mither, and young Augustuv and that ye and yere sister twere dead. He claimed to have heard rumors that yere fither had arranged for the attack. He showed them the two graves that supposedly held the dead from the attack.” explained MacDonald.
“It did nay make sense to Rolfe and me. Yere fither had red hair. The Comanche twill avoid a man or woman with red hair. Either he did deal with the Comanche or he ran.”
MacDonald looked at Lorenz. “Since ye twere with Zale, did ye kill the O'Neal living in Wooden?”
“Naw, I wanted to, but he had me chained up 'cause he and his brother figured out who I was when ah went there looking for ma. Red had followed me from Carson City and made him let me loose, and Red said he wuz taking me back to Rity, but he got drunk one night, and I gave him the slip.” Lorenz finished the tale without telling why O'Neal drank too much.
To MacDonald it was an amazement what the lad could tell and what he must have omitted from the telling. “Where twas he takin' ye?”
“Back to Rity in Carson City.”
“How did she get there from San Antonio?”
“Red helped her run away from the nunnery. She wound up in Tucson running a bakery.” Lorenz figured he'd better leave out the before part about her and Red gambling on the riverboats.
“How did ye get there?”
“Zale was close to there when I ran away, and Rity recognized me when I wuz looking for food.”
“Why did ye nay stay there?”
“Zale's woman ran away too and wuz with me in Tucson. She wuz pregnant agin and couldn't take that life no more. Zale followed her and kilt her. I tried to stop him, and he did this.” Lorenz touched the scar. “Rity had to pay for the doctor to fix me and to pay for it she started singing in the saloons.”
“Ye Gods!”
“Yeah, so y'all cain't tell Mama about Rity and where she is. Women like Mama pull their skirts away and spit at her, if they dast.” He looked at MacD
onald, his own face flushed with triumph. MacDonald's face showed his words had had their desired effect.
MacDonald took a deep breath and continued his questioning. “Ye still have nay said why ye both left Tucson.”
“Red wuz in Carson City, cause of the War. He weren't about to get kilt and the South couldn't make him put on a uniform. He needed help with his cathouses and sent for Rity.”
“She works there?” MacDonald's voice sunk to a horrified whisper. If ere his counselor had reason to hate the O'Neal's, she would be in a fury when she heard this tale.
“Naw, she does his books, but she's got her own gambling place.”
MacDonald's eyes took on a humorous glint. Somehow it seemed possible. “And why did ye nay stay?” he asked.
“'Cause Rity made me mad by whuppin' me. Ah just left. Ah had to get even with Zale anyway.”
“'Tis that why ye went looking for yere mither first?” probed the gentle, rumbling voice. Baffled, the boy clamped his lips shut.
“Now that ye have told yere tale, ye can listen to me. We are going back in there and finish our business. Before we do, ye need to ken the rules for the way ye twill be living.”
He paused, his eyes locking with Lorenz, neither giving way. “One, yere name tis Lorenz Adolf Lawrence. Two, ye twill nay be using the vile words to me, yere mither, nay any adult. Three, when I give an order, ye do it, but if any of my orders should puzzle ye, ye have the right to ask why and ye have the right to remind me that I have given ye this right. Ye have the right to learn and to grow the way the good Gar intended, but if ye cross me, I'll drop yere britches where ye stand and use a belt on yere backside.
The boy opened his mouth to protest, but MacDonald cut him off. “The first time ye disobey, twill only be five counts with the belt. Each time ye disobey thereafter, I'll increase the count by one. By the time I reach ten, ye had best learn to count. Any questions?”
By now anger was surging through Lorenz. He swallowed bitter words mixed with bile. This adversary was too large. He needed time to think, to plot, and to run again. He shook his head to indicate no questions.
