by Mari Collier
“Hold it, big man, or y'all are dead!”
MacDonald halted his advance and did not raise his rifle. “Nay, laddie, if ye twere going to shoot me, ye twould have done so from the ground.” He walked at a slow pace toward Lorenz, his voice a low gruff tone as he said, “Ye are going to yere mither and to House just as I told ye.”
Lorenz stood stunned. How could the Big Bastard know he wouldn't kill him? His breathing became intakes of short gulps of air, and the big man reached out and removed the rifle.
“Mac, du should have let me ving him,” Rolfe protested from the darkness.
“Nay, friend Rolfe, he tis my responsibility.” To Lorenz he said, “Replace the hobbles and walk to the front of the wagon.”
Lorenz's stomach lurched downward. That small nagging worry about Rolfe had been right. The man would have shot him as coolly as he killed an animal for meat. Lorenz knew what type of beating MacDonald would administer and the urge to run built again, but at the moment he could think of nothing to do except obey.
As they approached the wagon, Martin hurried towards the river carrying the Dutch oven reloaded with the spilled plates and utensils. “Twill ye need a hand later, laddie?” asked MacDonald.
“No, thanks, Uncle Mac. He'd just make more work.” A tight lipped Martin glared at Lorenz.
On the dark side of the wagon, the two halted their walk. “My belt or yere's?” came MacDonald's gentle inquiry.
Lorenz had his back to the man as he had walked a half-step ahead, certain in his own mind that a fist would send him to the ground at any time. The question left him blank. Belt? Wasn't the man going to use his fists?
When no answer came, he heard MacDonald remove his own belt, and he was pushed against the wagon wheel. “Drop yere britches,” rang in his ears.
His frustration and anger welled to the forefront and he whirled screaming, “No, yu'll are supposed to use your fists and beat me. Ah jest broke yore damn rules and ran, and had a rifle pointed right at yore belly.”
MacDonald looked at the angry youth and shook his head. “Laddie, I canna use my fists on ye. I would damage ye for life as ye are still but a wee one. The burning is to get yere attention, nay harm ye. Ye had the rifle pointed at me and yet ye dinna pull the trigger. Why?”
The anger subsided as Lorenz closed his eyes and reopened them and locked them onto MacDonald's face. “Because it would have been one of the dumbest things ah've ever did.” He swallowed. God, what was this man going to do to him?
MacDonald's face softened. He was looking at a face with eyes so like his Anna's. A half-smile flitted across his face.
“So, I did get yere attention, and ye have been thinking. Laddie, do ye ken ye have just told me what ye did wrong?”
Lorenz felt his world turn over. The man was as crazed as he was, and he still couldn't figure out what was going on. He watched MacDonald put his belt back on. That would mean no whipping. Why wasn't this man like the others he had known?
When no words came from Lorenz, MacDonald tried again. “Laddie, ye are nay a cold-blooded killer. Ye are Anna's laddie, and so much like her. I dinna ken why ye have nay wish to see her.
“Ah kilt Zale and one of his men,” Lorenz forced out.
“Twas a deed needing done. That does nay make ye a killer enjoying the hunt and the ending of another's life.”
Lorenz could think of no response, but he realized the danger of being beat to the ground was over. His mind, his body, however, refused to believe it.
MacDonald kept probing. “Why are ye so set on running rather than return to yere mither?”
The anger came roiling up again, transforming his eyes into two blazing points of grey. “Ah cain't go back,” he screamed at MacDonald. “Y'all don't know the things that happened in that Comanchero camp.”
MacDonald shook his head. “Laddie, Mr. Rolfe and I twere fur trappers. We lived in the wilds with men alone or sometimes with the native peoples in their camps around the trading forts. I ken the depravity that runs in some men's doings. That, however, does nay make ye like them, nay does it prevent ye from returning home.”
“Mama don't want someone like that in her home,” Lorenz grated through his teeth. “She was a praying woman, probably still is.”
“Oh, aye, that she tis, and one of her prayers tis for yere safe return. I canna return without ye.”
Lorenz was staring at the man. Was he crazy? No white woman would let someone like him in their house. He had one last argument. “Mr. MacDonald, ah doan know how to live with people like Mama.”
“Then ye can learn. Twill be like going to a new country, but ye are a clever laddie.” He put his hand out to start Lorenz back to the camp area when Lorenz began slamming his fist into the wagon wheel in frustration. The sheer viciousness of the blows surprised MacDonald as the wheel began to shudder. Instinctively, he grabbed the boy's upheld fist and wrapped his other arm around the shoulders. He stepped in closer and held the shaking body.
For the first time in years Lorenz felt protected and cared for. He almost relaxed and then his body snapped straight and a strangled voice demanded, “Let go of me!”
As MacDonald stepped away the almost disemboweled voice continued. “Don't y'all understand? I killed another one of them bastards. Zale's men had made a big raid, and they had lots of women and booze. Everybody had a woman, but the damn runty half-breed. I was only twelve and he drug me off in the bushes, but I had my knife and I slit his damn throat. It was night and no one was watching. I just stayed hid while the rest of them kept drinking and using the women they had until they passed out.”
“Then I went and got some grub, and some of the money they stole, and took two horses, and skedaddled the rest of the stock, and lit out for anywhere else. That's when all the rest happened I told y'all about. I ended up in Tucson, and after I moved in with Rity, I worked at a livery stable and thought everything was going okay. That's when Mamacita showed up, and Rity let her stay. Then Zale found us. That's when he killed Mamacita and did this to me.” Lorenz ran his finger along the scar. “I don't know how Rity got him out of there, 'cause I don't think her shotgun was loaded. She'd have blasted him if it was.”
Lorenz stopped his recital long enough to take a deep breath and remembered to use his border drawl. “That's when Rity started singin' in saloons for money to pay for doctors. When ah got better, she took me along to Carson City and went to work there for Red keepin' books and as a partner in his card place. Still think ah can fit in a real home with a decent woman,” he jeered at the finish.
MacDonald loomed over him, silent for a moment and then said, “Aye, but when that anger comes on ye again, I suggest ye take it out on stones and rocks, or mayhap, the woodpile.”
Lorenz closed his eyes and shook his head. The telling of it all had been hurtful, but he had been so sure that MacDonald would not consider letting someone like him near his wife and daughter that he risked it. Maybe MacDonald thought it was all right, but Lorenz knew he wasn't fit.
He looked at the big man standing there like a rock and his real reason for running came blurting out of his despair and his mouth. “Mr. MacDonald, I can't go where Mama is. I don't know what I'll do when she tells me to get out.”
MacDonald felt rocked by the revelations, but knew he must go gently. “Lorenz, I have been wed to yere mither for almost seven years. That tis more than the time ye had with her. I ken her ways and her thinking. She twill nay throw ye out.”
From the time of Lorenz's outburst, they had been moving further and further away from the wagon and the path to the edge of the barely running water. They were south of Martin, but at the banks of the small river. “To me, it sounds like ye are saying that yere perception, way of thinking, of yere mither tis why ye keep trying to run. Since ye kenned that yere sister had nay but yere welfare, wellbeing,” MacDonald took pains to make sure Lorenz understood his words, “upper most in her mind, why did ye run from her? Yere actions make some of yere words hard to believe.�
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Lorenz clenched his hands and half turned to him. “Cause she whupped me right in front of the whole town.”
Not really surprised that Lorenz could drive someone to that point, MacDonald asked, “And what had ye done that brought it on?”
“Nothin'!”
“That too tis hard to believe as once more yere actions make yere words hollow. What twas it that she thought ye had done?”
“I was with Red, and he stopped in at the fancy whorehouse to talk with the Madam. The girls were all clucking over me while Red and the Madam went in another room for a drink when Rity came busting in screaming her head off. She used her parasol on the girls and on anyone that was handy. The Madam and Red came running out to protect the girls, and Rity knocked the Madam down and slammed the point of the parasol into Red's belly. Then she grabbed me and pushed and pulled me out the door using that damned parasol on me, and everybody in town getting an eyeful. She kept swinging it like a cane until we got home and then she really laid into me with a belt. After that she said I had to go my room and stay there without anything to eat 'cause I had cussed at her. She slammed the door on me and then she went to work at her gambling place. I just grabbed my gun and some food, and high tailed it to the stable were Dandy was, and left. I knew nobody would be looking for me until morning and by that time I'd be long gone, and I was.”
At the end of this recital, MacDonald was thankful for the darkness that hid his smile. “Did ye, ah, actually bed one of the whores?”
“Nah, there wasn't time, and Red had only said maybe 'cause I was pretty young. He said he'd see how I do just talking with them.”
“Good, tis nay the way of a first bedding.”
“Huh?”
“Oh, another subject that I am sure yere mither and I twill nay agree upon when the time comes.” He shrugged. “It seems yere sister also has yere mither's temper.”
They paced along the water's edge, staying away from the camp area. “Mama cain't have one that bad,” Lorenz insisted.
MacDonald chuckled. “Oh, aye, that she can. If there had been but two Indians that attacked yere cabin that day, they would have lost. Yere fither must have kenned they would be attacked for he had taken both guns with him. Daniel had been sent to the field to help him ere the attack came. She ran out of the house with a broom as her club and used it on the first one to dismount. She downed him and knocked the wind from him, and nigh had another down when the third emerged from the cabin swinging the babe by one leg. Of course, yere mither dropped the broom and grabbed yere brither. They may have thought her mad for nay running as an Indian woman would have done and let her live. I dinna. Then too, such a woman would breed brave laddies, and they had two of hers already.”
“By the time I rescued her, she twas a skinny body of bone and her hair had turned completely white. The Comanche were sure she twas mad indeed. They had cut off the ends of her little fingers as their way to show her grief over losing two of her wee ones to members of the tribe, but she kept trying to tempt Daniel back to her. They tried cutting off her ears since she did nay listen to their commands, nay to their reasons as she would nay bide by their rules. She may have kenned their ways more than they kenned as she kept behaving as though she twere mad. Mayhap she did become a bit mad when the babe twas given to a different tribe. Since they were nay certain of her sanity, they fed her very little. Starvation usually brings a sane person to heel. Nay her. She defied them to the day we hit their camp.”
“Y'all married her anyways?” To Lorenz this seemed as mad as the tale of his mother.
“Of course, I did. She tis a brave, magnificent lassie. Who else would have the courage to attack me with fists and tongue because I rescued her and nay her laddie? She kept screaming at me to go find Daniel. She did nay calm down till I went to look for him.”
MacDonald changed the subject. “It grows late, and I must rest. As much as I would nay, I must bed ye down with the ropes, and in the morrow, ye have the task of apologizing to Martin.”
“Why?” Lorenz stopped. He felt beaten and drained. It was one more thing that he could not understand.
“Ye took his rifle. Tis almost as serious as taking his horse in this country.”
“Mr. MacDonald, I don't know how to do that,” Lorenz admitted.
“Ye use such words as 'I took yere rifle and I should have nay and I sorrow'; nay, yere way is to say 'I'm sorry.' Any of those words should do nicely.” He prodded Lorenz towards the wagon.
Lorenz reverted to his usual way of speaking. “And iffen ah don't, yu'll ain't going to let me ride Dandy into yore place, right?”
MacDonald grinned into the darkness. “Aye, that tis correct. Yere actions and the doing of what tis right twill determine how much freedom ye have.”
Lorenz kept walking as he continued protesting. “Hit won't do no good. Martin ain't goin' to believe me.”
“That does nay matter. What matters is that ye do apologize.”
As usual, MacDonald was proficient in tying Lorenz, who stretched at the ropes in the hopes that just once the big man would relax or make an error. Nothing had gone the way he had planned. He had thought the act of killing Zale and watching him die would silence the rage inside him. It had not. Instead, he was physically confined, going where he did not want to go, and for some reason he was calling the big man Mr. MacDonald.
When he came in from his night watch, MacDonald started the coffee. As usual, the noise roused the rest of the camp. Martin didn't bother to glance at Lorenz, or give his usual greeting on his way to the latrine area.
Lorenz tried once more to convince MacDonald that Martin was in no mood to talk to him, but MacDonald simply raised his eyebrows and pointed. Lumps stuck in Lorenz's throat as he approached Martin slapping the biscuits into the Dutch oven.
He squatted down by the older youth and tried. “Uh, Martin, I took your rifle last night, but, well, ah…”
“Lorenz, shut up. I ain't interested and y'all are saying words that Uncle put into your mouth.” Martin clamped the lid on the Dutch oven and set it in the coals. “I've got work to do.” He turned his back on Lorenz and started heating the pan for gravy made with flour and water.
The words stung deeper than he believed they could. Lorenz stood and walked back to MacDonald, heartsick and breathing heavier. A week ago, he would not have cared, but for awhile there had been a comradeship with Martin that he wanted to keep. He could find no one to blame but himself. Martin was the one person who really believed that he, Lorenz, was worth trusting, and he hadn't proved out. It was a bitter realization. Lorenz was under no illusion that MacDonald trusted him, or did he? Why hadn't he pulled that trigger? How did MacDonald know he wouldn't? He stuck his hands in his pocket and mouthed the bitter words. “He won't let me finish.”
“Try again after breakfast,” suggested MacDonald. “Meanwhile, we twill wait for the coffee.”
Lorenz considered and took a deep breath. He would try again and this time Martin would believe him. Hell, he always could make people believe him, but this time, he decided, he wouldn't try any of his mind tricks.
After breakfast, Lorenz grabbed the coffee pot as Martin loaded the Dutch oven with items to be cleaned. “Ah have to work, or else ah'm in trouble,” he announced.
Martin raised his eyebrows and continued to pack the rest of the eating gear. They both carried their load over to the slow, running water. As Martin rinsed and scoured the plates and utensils, he ignored Lorenz's clumsy attempts to apologize again.
Lorenz set his lips, and continued to try to find the right words to break through Martin's resolve when James broke in. “Thus sayeth the Lord: Seven times seventy.”
Martin's head snapped up. “What's that got to do with him?”
“You know, you studied the catechism. Jesus meant you can't decide whether he means it or not.” James was quite pleased with himself. He could quote scripture and not be in any danger of retaliation from Martin; not without Martin being in trouble. May
be he could even make Martin squirm while he practiced doing what a real Pastor would do.
It was almost possible to see Martin thinking. Guile wasn't in him and he knew James was right. That was the maddening part. Both young men stood and faced each other. “Why should I believe y'all? Are y'all telling me y'all ain't going to try to run again?”
Lorenz shook his head. “Ah ain't going anywhere but home today. Ah'm just sayin' if ah try anything again, ah won't touch nothing of yours, and ah'll do it when ah can't get y'all in trouble.” He stuck out his right hand as a peace offering hardly daring to believe whatever it was that James said had worked this change in Martin.
Martin looked down at the hand and reluctantly shook it. “All right, I'll accept your apology, but I ain't going to trust y'all to keep it.”
“That's not what God meant,” intoned the younger Rolfe. He had his hands behind his back and was rocking back and forth on his heels. He was quite pleased with his efforts. He had made Martin do his bidding.
Martin made ready to go after his younger sibling, and Lorenz stepped in front of him. “Blame me, not him.”
“Y'all are sticking up for him?” Martin was struck by the unbelievable situation.
“Well, he helped me. Seems fair.”
Martin looked at Lorenz and smiled. He then put out his hand and they shook again. “Okay, maybe y'all mean it this time.”
Chapter 6: Anna's and MacDonald's Way
As MacDonald and Rolfe saddled their horses, Lorenz moved toward Dandy. MacDonald shook his head. “First ye ride the wagon. Twill be a couple of hours ere we ride ahead.”
Lorenz swallowed, but accepted the dictum. “How long does it take before we get there?” he asked Martin.
“We'll be there about noon. Tante Anna will feed us. A good thing. I'm damned tired of my cooking.” He clucked at the horses once James was in the wagon.
