Gather The Children (Chronicles of the Maca Book 2)

by Mari Collier

  “Then why's he praying?” Lorenz was curious.

  “Because he's going to be a pastor.” Martin slapped the reins to keep the horses moving. Lorenz knew he'd been given an explanation, and obviously a pastor was like a job that had something to do with praying. The idea of marriage keeping men out of a whorehouse, however, sure didn't fit with anything he knew.

  “Well, iffin yore Ma's dead, what's wrong with yore Pa goin' there?” he asked.

  “It's still a sin.” Martin's voice implied amazement at his ignorance. He swung the horse to the left to enter the lumberyard.

  MacDonald dismounted, tied his horse and walked over. “Ye come with me, laddie.”

  Curious, Lorenz clambered down and followed MacDonald inside. The one-story building and its fence ran almost the length of the block. After the glare of the sun, it took awhile for his eyes to adjust. Stacked lumber and the remnants of spilled varnish fought with dust to overpower the nose. The man that greeted them had a full head of hair and jowls that should have been full. Instead the jowls had become skin that hung at the sides waiting for better times to flush them out again. Where Stanley had been aloof, this man was openly hostile, resentment edging his voice and manner.

  “Your materials are ready for you all to pick up,” he said stiffly.

  “There tis now a need to change my plans, but I still need the lumber. I also need a door handle to finish one of the upstairs' rooms for the laddie. The shed twill wait another season,” said MacDonald.

  “Do you need Bailey?” asked the slack jowled man. “I can send him out for a day or two. Y'all would pay me by the day.”

  “And how can that be legal now?” asked MacDonald.

  “Bailey works for me.” The answer was given in flat, final tones.

  A small smile worked at MacDonald's mouth. “And did he nay before?”

  Clifford flushed, his eyes locking with MacDonald's. “Do y'all want him out there or not?”

  “No, thank ye, we twill manage. How much do I owe ye?”

  Lorenz watched the money exchange hands and followed MacDonald out the side entrance where Rolfe and Martin were busy loading the lumber in the wagon. An overly thin, black man was helping.

  “Bailey, go fetch Mr. MacDonald enough material for an interior door and jambs,” commanded Clifford. He looked at MacDonald wondering what the man would do when it came to installing the lock plate, but didn't ask. He didn't want to hear that someone from Germantown would be summoned. Damn Yankees. They wouldn't use a black before the War and wouldn't use one after. What good was freedom to a man starving to death? He turned and walked back inside, praying for the day when he could refuse to sell to the likes of MacDonald.

  Bailey returned with a stack of lumber and added it to the boards on the wagon and handed him a small sack. “That's the handle, latch, and plate, suh.”

  MacDonald eyed the man who was no better clad than Lorenz or the laddie carrying the brew for the saloon. He felt a certain kinship, for this man was as trapped as he.

  “Aye, thank ye.” He motioned Lorenz to the front, watched him climb up, put the sack in his saddlebag, and mounted his horse. He gave a nod to Martin and the wagon started to roll.

  Lorenz settled himself. “Now where we goin'?”

  “To the Blue Star,” replied Martin. “Papa and Uncle Mac had the liquor ordered last year, but they couldn't get it through with the war on.”

  The blonde was still hustling up business and tried a new angle. “Hey, why don't you all bring your boys in. They look big enough to learn.”

  Lorenz grinned and waved his hat. He shot a quick look at MacDonald who had a frown on his face, but he said nothing.

  “Any chance of that happening?” he asked Martin.

  “Naw.”

  “Y'all ever had a woman?”

  “Naw, it costs too much. I spent my money on the shirt. It's going to last a lot longer.”

  Lorenz twisted to get a better look at Martin. His tanned face was not flushed. In fact, it was downright complacent.

  “Besides,” Martin continued, “if things go right, in a couple of years I'll send for a bride. I can wait until then.”

  Lorenz sat back to consider that statement. What kind of people was he riding with? Every man he ever knew had considered it natural to go to a whore. Right now he had a hardness between his legs just thinking about it. Was he unnatural?

  One of the freighters was ahead of them when Martin pulled to a stop at the loading dock. Lorenz scrambled down. The hardness had evaporated and something more urgent was necessary. He was about to open his fly when MacDonald's big hand closed on his shoulder again.

  “Nay here!” the angry roar sounded in his ear. “Have ye nay sense?”

  “Why the hell not?” Protest was useless as MacDonald marched him behind the nearest building.

  “Ye dinna expose yere privates when there may be ladies or young lassies about. Yere mither would have both of our ears. And dinna piss on the boards, use the ground.”

  Lorenz finished and buttoned up the canvas flap. “Others do it that way,” he grumbled.

  “Aye, but ye are now part of my House, and ye dinna.”

  It was, Lorenz decided, going to be a long ride to wherever they were going. They walked back to the wagon where Martin was pulling up to the dock. Rolfe had a shit-eating grin etched across his face, but Lorenz knew he could do nothing about it.

  “Friend Mac, du are learning how much nicer daughters can be.” Rolfe punctuated his remark with another blob of juice.

  “Aye,” the word eased out, slow and thoughtful.

  Andrew was waiting for them. “I got your papers right here. Y'all want to prove a point?”

  MacDonald eyed the man warily. “What have ye in mind?”

  “I bet these buggers y'all could carry that barrel of booze with no help.”

  “Aye, I do the work, and ye collect the money. I have waited too long for the goods. I twill nay chance breaking the bottles now,” replied MacDonald.

  “We'll split it half and half,” cajoled Andrew. Personally, he was glad the war was over. Now a man could earn money again.

  Light gleamed in MacDonald's dark eyes. “How much?” came the terse question.

  “It's five for y'all and five for me. That makes your telegrams free.”

  “Laddie, ye wait here with Mr. Rolfe.” MacDonald rolled after Andrew and soon reappeared, the barrel resting on one shoulder, propped by his hand at the top. Lorenz, like the others, was awed. The man wasn't straining or breathing hard. To him it was child's play. MacDonald's stance once again convinced Lorenz that this man was built somehow different. The body was thicker, the arms and legs sturdier, heavier, wider, the arms looking as if set just a tad too forward, or was it simply they, like the rest of the man, exceeded all normal proportions? MacDonald walked to the wagon and without missing a step walked up the plank, over the lumber, and set the barrel gently against the front. Two other men appeared carrying Rolfe's barrel and placed it beside the first. MacDonald lashed them down with a rope that Rolfe tossed to him.

  “Up ye go, laddie.” MacDonald jerked his thumb towards Martin and went to collect from Andrew, a satisfied grin on his face.

  Chapter 4: Lorenz Takes A Chance

  Lorenz rolled his cigarette and looked at Martin. “Y'all want some?” he offered. He was bored with the silence and the jolting of the wagon was sure to do damage to his backside.

  “Naw, thanks, but I don't smoke or chew. Both cost too much money.”

  “That's a fact,” muttered Lorenz, glad of the refusal. He didn't know when he would get more. Red had kept him supplied in Carson City. 'Course Rity didn't know nothing about it. “How long's this trip gonna take?”

  “We're getting a late start so it'll be four nights on the trail, then close to another half-a-day before we reach your place.”

  “Ain't my place,” protested Lorenz.

  “Sure it is, now. Uncle Mac ain't got any sons, just Mina, and in Texas,
girls can't own land.” To Martin, this fact was irrefutable; therefore, Lorenz would inherit.

  “How much land?” asked Lorenz.

  “Papa and Uncle Mac each own a couple of thousand acres and all around us is more land and wild cattle that nobody owns. We use the land and brand all the cattle we can catch.”

  “Why bother if prices are so bad?” Lorenz began to see why MacDonald wanted a hand.

  “Because the prices are going to get better,” replied Martin. “We got a contract with the U.S. Cavalry for another three hundred head this fall and again come spring. That's six hundred dollars split two ways each trip, but prices are better up North.” His voice became excited. “Do y'all know what they get for each head up there?”

  “Nope.” He took a deep drag on the cigarette, sure that Martin was about to tell him.

  “Thirty dollars a head, that's vat!” In his excitement, Martin lapsed into the accent of his father. “Do y'all know vhat that comes to?”

  Lorenz shook his head no while Martin explained.

  Like most men, Martin would plod through life, secure in his own lot, thanking God for his blessings and asking help from above when needed. This, however, was his idea, one of the few original ideas that he would ever conceive. He had gone over and over the details in his mind and now there was an opportunity to execute it. From this one thought would come riches and security for him and for his yet to be conceived children. When he first mentioned it to his father and MacDonald, Rolfe started to laugh, but the interest on MacDonald's face stilled the mirth. After much discussion the two older men had agreed.

  Martin warmed to his subject and the chance to explain it again. “Say we each drive three hundred, maybe five hundred head north. That's nine, fifteen thousand for each family. It's more money than this whole county has seen in four years. Even with paying the men and other expenses, it will leave seven or ten thousand each. Every year we can drive another herd. Prices are sure to get better and the herds bigger, if we cull them right and hire the right men to drive them.”

  “Who the hell ever heard of driving cattle that far?” Lorenz was skeptical.

  Martin's voice was stubborn as he said, “Papa used to drive herds to New Orleans before the war, and he was paid good money. That was after trapping went to hell and Uncle Mac was scouting for the 2nd Dragoons. He helped on the first drive though.”

  “Ah still don't see how y'all will get through Injun country. Where's the water and feed y'all need for that many cows?”

  “Papa and Uncle Mac know how to get through,” Martin replied. “Papa still goes to see Old Chisholm on the Cherokee Reservation.”

  “What's that got to do with anything?”

  “Chisholm is still a trader in the Cherokee lands. Papa and Uncle Mac know him from their fur trapping days. His wagons made trails carrying the freight in for the Indians. We can drive a herd through Cherokee territory and not worry about being attacked. There's probably some Jay Hawkers left from the war, but we'll get enough men for any fighting. We just need extra horses and plenty of grub. Cattle, even longhorns, trail good. We can sell the extra horses there too, just like we do in Arles. They're just wild mustangs that we rough break for herding.”

  “Yeah, but iffen y'all can drive cattle, others will too. Then who buys that many beeves?”

  “Meat packers or brokers back east, that's who. There's lots of people pouring into this country, thousands every year! The North needs our beef.” Martin had heard these arguments before and he had an answer for everyone.

  Lorenz considered the possibilities and the reasons. “Why so many people coming here?”

  “Because things in the old country are bad. It's much better here. Here a man can get land and try to get rich.”

  “Why not do that where they are?” Things weren't really that great in Texas as far as Lorenz could see. People were starving, empty houses dotted the landscape, the Comanche were acting like they owned the western part of the state, and the men coming home from the war were gaunt, tattered clad skeletons that rode mules and horses equally ill fed, if they had horses or mules.

  Martin looked at Lorenz in wonderment. “In the old country,” he said firmly, “men like us can't get rich. Some places, we can't even get schooling. Men are expected to do what their papas did, and they sure can't vote. All the land is owned by the rich, and that's who y'all work for. Y'all can't even worship God like y'all want, and if y'all catch so much as a rabbit for food they hang y'all.”

  Lorenz had never heard such things. Maybe other places were different. He didn't know. It was safer to go back to talking about selling beef and horses. “What do y'all mean about sellin' horses? Ah thought y'all wuz trailin' beef.”

  “We needed the extra horses for the trail. One horse gets tired if y'all use it all the time. So we each have an extra horse and then sell it. That's how I got the money for the shirt. Papa gave it to me.”

  “Why wouldn't he? Sounds like y'all earned it.”

  “That's how it is in families. It ain't your money until y'all are twenty-one, the legal age.” A quick glance was enough to see disbelief written on Lorenz's face and Martin elaborated. “After y'all turn twenty-one, anything y'all earn is all yours. Papa is right good about money though. He lets me keep anything Uncle Mac or Uncle Kap pay me for haying or helping. It ain't much, but it makes a difference. Papa left home when he was sixteen because his papa beat him and always kept the money from Papa's job. Papa figured he was better off on his own.”

  “Damn right,” agreed Lorenz. “Does yore pa beat on y'all?”

  “Only when I needed it.” Martin threw a quick smile over the reins. “It seems a boy can always get into trouble. He only laid me out once, and it was my own fault. I got into the last of his whiskey and what I didn't drink I broke when I fell down.”

  Lorenz gave a half-way chuckle, but he was wondering how Martin could be so free of any hatred towards his sire. “Was it worth it?” he asked.

  “Naw, whiskey don't taste half as good as beer or wine.”

  There was another matter that didn't fit in with life as Lorenz knew it. “How come y'all got all that booze if y'll are Christian?”

  “Huh, y'all must have been listening to some Baptist or Methodist preacher. Jews drink wine, and Jesus was a Jew. He made wine. Not that booze has anything to do with salvation.” Martin liked being the knowledgeable one.

  Lorenz tried sorting the words out. The words Martin used had no meaning to him; yet, Martin's voice and words had a familiarity to them like some long ago echo of family conversations and word patterns that moved in his head and visited his dreams: Voices from far away calling him home to safety and sanity. He didn't want Martin to stop talking. He wasn't sure what salvation meant either. Rity had said it meant to be saved, but right now the only thing he needed saved from was MacDonald. Rolfe and MacDonald were still on either side of the wagon. Sometimes one would go to point and one to drag, but never far enough away for Lorenz to bound over the side and loosen Dandy for a quick exit.

  “I don't know who I was listening to,” said Lorenz, unaware that he was picking up the speech of Martin, “but them camp meeting ladies sure didn't hold with drinking. And the preacher man doing all the shouting was sure agin it.”

  “Ja,” agreed Martin, “and he was probably ignorant too. Them kind don't have any education. They can't read much English, let alone Greek or Hebrew.” Martin slapped the reins over the backs of the horse in disgust.

  Lorenz listened in amazement at the words. He didn't realize that Martin was iterating the standard Lutheran argument against any uneducated preacher. “What's reading got to do with it?” he asked.

  “Y'all can't preach the word of God if y'all can't read it.”

  Lorenz was sure that that didn't keep any number of people from preaching, but at least this opened a new line of thought as Martin was becoming irate about something. It would be best to stick to subjects where Martin wasn't watching and alert.

  �
�Can y'all read all those languages,” asked Lorenz.

  Martin relaxed and smiled. “Well, not Greek or Hebrew, but I ain't a Pastor. I can read and write Deutsch and English though, and your Uncle Kap is teaching James Latin. In a few years, he'll be learning Greek.”

  Lorenz was awed. “Why Dutch in this country?”

  “Not Dutch, Deutsch. It's pronounced German in English.”

  Then why didn't he say German in the first place, Lorenz wondered. “Can y'all cipher too?”

  “Sure, pretty good at numbers. Least ways, I'm good enough so nobody's going to cheat me.” Martin wasn't bragging. He was just stating a fact.

  “Where'd y'all go to school?”

  “Right in Schmidt's Corner. Your uncle, he was the teacher, and he taught everybody.”

  There was the reference to his uncle again. He sure as hell couldn't remember him. Lorenz stayed on the subject. “Who's everybody?”

  “My sister, Olga, some of Tillman's relatives, and Tillman's oldest girl. The Tillman's relatives have moved out. They didn't have anything to eat after the men joined the Rebs. Now Young James is his only student. Tillman won't send his girls if he can't pay. Y'all ever been to school, Lorenz?”

  “Naw, never no time.” He wondered what Martin would say if he told him about Comancheros, or Rity singing in saloons. Probably best not to. Aloud he said, “Rity taught me some ciphering. Ah didn't do much learning to read though.”

  “I'll bet Uncle Mac and Tante Anna teach y'all.”

  “Mama reads and writes?” burst out of Lorenz's mouth.

  “Ja, sure, the same as me: Deutsch and English.”

  Lorenz pondered the information. Most men he'd known couldn't much more than sign their name. What the hell was a woman doing reading and writing? Of course, Rity did both, but that didn't count. There wasn't much of a woman about Rity except her figure and clothes. “What does Tante mean?” he asked.

  “In English it means Aunt. As much as she helped to raise us after Mama died, it seemed silly to call her Mrs. MacDonald.”