by Mari Collier
Brigetta sat dumbfounded. So much money? How could that be? It was only half a house, the rest a cave. The furniture, except for the table and the beautiful rosewood pump organ in one corner, was nothing more than sticks and bones held together with leather. She watched Anna move to the desk and bring a pad and pencil to the table.
“Now we start with the sewing machine.” Anna must have seen the stricken look on Brigetta's face. “Don't worry. I'll speak to Martin.”
Brigetta was fascinated. This woman was so sure, so confident. What kind of man would marry her, someone so tall and self-assured? The sound of men's voices carried into the house and the door in the kitchen could be heard opening and closing. The answer to Brigetta's unspoken question appeared, his bulk filling the doorway, and she almost fainted.
As Mrs. MacDonald had assured her, they went to Schmidt's Corner the next day. It seemed like another contradiction in reality. Small, poor buildings, certainly poor people, but there were presents and a table groaning with food.
Brigetta considered everything that happened since her arrival. She was seated beside Lorenz in the buggy as they drove home from Schmidt's Corner. How could the evening be so fair? The air so clean and sweet while the moon and stars shone so brightly and she be so miserable?
Lorenz's horse was tied to the back and Martin was wedged into the space behind the seats amid all the packages. “Sleeping it off,” was their word for it. The MacDonald's buckboard followed behind them and MacDonald was riding his huge, black animal.
“Don't vorry about Young James,” said her father-in-law as MacDonald supported Martin out of the Schmidt's home. “I'll bring him by in the morning. Du vill take care of things, ja, friend Mac.”
Brigetta could not figure out what the big man was tending. His wife was driving their wagon team while Mina slept in the back. Lorenz was driving this vehicle, and her head was hurting and her stomach protesting. The Schmidt's had served spiced laced meat dipped from an outside pit. Everyone else claimed it was marvelous, but Brigetta's tongue still burned. The store visit had been everything Mrs. MacDonald promised. The sewing machine was on order; she had new dishes, bolts of material, spools of thread, needles, tubs, pots and pans, and a new kitchen knife. She had been the center of overwhelming attention and given linens, soap, a mirror, and scissors for wedding gifts. They called it a chiveree and all sang songs and the adults joked about married life.
They pulled into the Rolfe headquarters, and everyone helped with unloading and carrying in the packages after Brigetta lit the lamp. Lorenz supported an almost awake Martin, past Olga's closed organ, into the cave bedroom and waited for her to light the lamp. He dropped Martin onto the mattress. Brigetta marveled that the young man hadn't drunk like the others.
“Y'all want me to undress him?”
She blinked her eyes stupidly, and he repeated the question in German. Brigetta reddened. She could hear the MacDonald's carrying things into the house and she stared at the handsome youth in front of her.
“It's no bother.” Lorenz began yanking the boots off. “He usually doesn't drink.” He grinned at her. “He was just trying to act like his papa.”
Brigetta fled to the front. Anna smiled at her. “It will be all right. Just don't let him drink. He's like his mother and can't drink beer. She died too soon. I'll be over in a couple of weeks to teach you how to make soap and drive a team of horses.” A brief hug and she was gone.
Brigetta sank into the chair. This was impossible. She could never live here. These people were too strong, too overwhelming: as overwhelming as the land. If only her head would quit pounding.
Lorenz emerged from the back and asked, “Are y'all all right, ma'am?” He switched to German and asked the same question.
She rose from the chair. “Yes, thank you.”
“I took off his boots, coat, and trousers. The last two things are hung on the pegs. Goodnight, Frau Rolfe.” He smiled, tipped his hat and left.
Brigetta heard the horses clomping off and closed her eyes and yawned. The dishes should be unpacked and put away, but there had been no time to scrub down the cupboard. She hung the iron pots on the nails hammered into the wall by the stove. She looked at the packages of embroidered towels, needles, and thread while her shoulders sank in weariness. She removed her hat and moved into the bedroom as tears rolled down her cheeks. Papa Rolfe had ordered them a new chest with drawers as a wedding present. What was she to do? She had no funds left. How could she leave? Where could she find the strength to live in this land? Her clothes joined Martin's on the pegs. She didn't even worry about putting her nightgown on under her clothes before removing them as Martin was snoring. She simply undressed and pulled the nightgown on. Once the lamp was out, she tried praying as she had been since childhood, but her mind was blank; as blank as a night filled with November clouds. With a start, she realized the lamp in the front room was still lit. Wearily, Brigetta rose and went back to the front. As she was about to bend over and blow out the light, she heard the sound of hoofs out front. Had the MacDonald's returned?
She straightened, uncertain, frowning a bit. If it was Papa Rolfe, he usually slept in the barn, or sometimes outside. If it was the MacDonald's, she would need her robe. She turned and started towards the bedroom when the door burst open, and from somewhere she heard herself screaming at the two men rushing towards her.
Too late she tried to run as they both grabbed at her. One man held her right hand and had his arm around her waist pulling her into him, crowing, “I gets a kiss from the bride!”
The other man held her left arm and was running his hand up and down, over her hips and legs, pulling the material upwards, now rubbing up and down the inside of her thighs. The whiskey smell and sweat were horrible, and Brigetta felt the roughness of the man's skin and teeth clash against hers.
“Doan't git greedy,” said the man rubbing her. “Her man's got to be around here. We got time to take what we want.”
The man holding her put his hands under her hips and began forcing her backwards to her knees. The other man cursed and shouted, “Yu fool! Let's get her out of here first. Then we'll give her a real Texas chiveree.”
Brigetta was screaming for Martin as the man's mouth left hers, and he pulled her upright by grabbing her arm and her right breast. Both men were laughing at her and the ease of taking her from a Yankee when Martin stumbled out of the bedroom. He was still drunk, but his rubber legs held him as he hurled himself across the room with a yell and landed on the man holding Brigetta.
The other man sidestepped and pulled out a pistol and laid it across the side of Martin's head. Martin dropped to the floor on all fours, blood pouring down his neck and ear while the two men dragged Brigetta out of the house.
“We can take her here. He ain't going to do anything.” The one holding Brigetta was impatient.
“No, that ain't our orders. We're supposed to git her away from here and naked. If she makes it back all right, fine, if not, jest one more Yankee Dutchman gone. Damn shame. She's just right fer takin' care of one, maybe both of us.”
They were dragging her towards their horses, when she heard more hoofs clattering in the night. As the one man mounted, the other started to lift her up to the man on the horse. The rifle bullet shattered his head. He fell, ripping her gown, and she fell with him, the horse's hooves barely missing her head as the other man kicked his horse into motion. Another shot felled him. She was scrabbling on the ground towards the house, stones cutting into her hands and knees, when suddenly Lorenz was beside her, lifting her up, and asking, “Are y'all all right, I mean, Frau Rolfe, are you all right.”
His hands were strong and gentle, but she could only look at him blankly, nothing penetrated. He looked down. “We were too far out. We didn't think they would be this close and—where's Martin?”
Brigetta managed to sob out words. “He's hurt. He tried to fight.”
More hooves were pounding behind them. Lorenz looked up and yelled. “Martin's inside and she
says he's hurt.” He turned and half-carried, half-pulled her with him as he hurried towards the door.
Martin was still on the floor, the blood pooling around him and covering his shoulder. Brigetta remembered thinking; I'll never be able to get it out of the floor or his clothes. Lorenz propped her in a chair, and knelt beside Martin as a man outside screamed. The scream was followed by a gurgle. Lorenz tore his shirt off and used it to stem the blood as he pushed the skin on Martin's head back together.
MacDonald barreled into the room. “How bad tis it?”
“Bad, needs sewing.”
MacDonald looked at Brigetta, and she pulled her nightgown closer. She saw his eyes evaluate her, and then reject the idea of any help. He turned towards the stove and said, “I'll stir up the fire. I need some hair from a horse's mane and a needle. They must be boiled. Keep holding that together until friend Rolfe comes in.”
Rolfe banged in the door as MacDonald was speaking, and he joined Lorenz on the floor. “Du go get the hair. I'll take care of my poy.”
Lorenz stood and ran out the door. Brigetta stood up and took a deep breath. Were these men rejecting her as a fallen woman, or did they just assume she was useless? The gown started to sag, and she ran towards the bedroom and hid behind the curtain. She heard MacDonald at the stove and water being poured. “We twill need some bandages and a large needle.”
“Ja, ve can cut off material from vone of the rolls. Maybe the voman knows vhere the needles are.”
Brigetta understood not a word being said and this was her house and her husband. From somewhere strength poured back into her. Needle? Was that the word Mina had used for nadle? Were they were going to sew up Martin's head? What did men know about sewing? She heard Lorenz come back into the house. She belted on the robe she'd bought with the last of her money and walked back out to see MacDonald pawing at her gifts. “What are you looking for?”
He looked at her and must have seen the difference in her eyes. He gave a rueful smile. “A needle large enough to hold the hair from the horse's mane we are using for thread. We also need a cloth for washing the blood away.” His German was decent, but the accent thick.
Brigetta moved to find what he needed.
“Friend Rolfe, I twill need some of your whiskey. Twill work as a cleanser.”
“Ja, du know vhere it is.”
Brigetta found the items MacDonald requested, but she held onto the needle. “How do you intend to thread it?”
The big man had removed his hat and hung it on a chair horn. His black hair was plastered against his head, and he grinned at her. “By letting you do it.” He moved over by the stove, fished the bottle out of the back of the cabinet, took the basin from the washstand, and added some of the water from the pot.
Brigetta watched, fascinated at the sight of the two violent, older men bathing Martin's head. She heard Lorenz grunt as he fished a piece of hair out of the boiling water and brought it to her. There was nothing but concern in those grey eyes. She assumed the concern was for Martin as she threaded the needle and moved over to the men.
“When you're through, I'll start to sew.”
The respect in MacDonald's brown eyes made her stand straighter. “Hold the needle and thread over the basin and I'll pour the whiskey over it.”
She hesitated a moment and did as he directed.
MacDonald liberally dumped the alcohol over the needle and her hands. “Can you make the stitches cross over each other?”
She nodded and he continued, “If you begin to feel ill, say so. Do not be ashamed. We've seen grown men faint at the sight of blood. His father and I will hold him. Lorenz, come hold the skin together for Frau Rolfe.”
Brigetta knelt and took a deep breath and began to sew. The skin was surprisingly tough to penetrate, and she ground her teeth together. Finally the bloody job was done and they were wrapping Martin's head in bandages. When they finished, MacDonald hoisted him into his arms like a baby and carried him to the bedroom.
She stood and blinked her eyes. The basin, filled with red fluid was still on the floor. She laid the needle on the table and picked up the basin to carry it outside. Suddenly Lorenz was in front of her speaking in German. “Frau Rolfe, let me do that.” He smiled down at her. “You don't need to see what's out there.”
She looked up at him and closed her eyes. He was right. She did not want to see those two men again. She suspected they were both dead, and without a word, she handed the basin to him.
MacDonald returned and retrieved his hat, and he spoke in Deutsch. “Mrs. MacDonald and I will be back tomorrow to see how you two are doing.” He patted her shoulder. “He will be fine in the morning except for a raging headache. Martin has chosen wisely.”
“Ja, gut stock.” Her father-in-law was standing there, eyeing her and he too used Deutsch. “You will make him a good wife. Mac and I will take care of things outside, and Lorenz will stand guard the rest of the night.” He looked at his friend and continued in English. “Ve haf a visit to make at Sheltons.”
MacDonald nodded his head and they stepped outside.
As the door closed behind them, Brigetta looked at the rosewood organ, gleaming softly in the lamplight. It sat silent in the corner, the one decent piece of furniture left by Olga. “We are starting to build the extra room,” Olga had confided that afternoon. “Uncle Mac will help us move it.” Like so many of Olga's dreams, the organ would remain closed and silent for another year.
Chapter 26: Ambush
Anna ignored the sweat trickling down her nose as she and Mina continued to weed in the garden. Six-year-old Mina was becoming such a help. The sun had lost its heat-of-the-day intensity, but since this was the end of August the huge dark clouds kept building and the weather became stickier and stickier, the smell of rain in the air mixing with the dust coating everything. The work was good though and would keep her from thinking. Lorenz had gone with the Rolfe's on the drive to market, and Mr. MacDonald was watching both places.
He had gone into the foothills as this was a slow time on the ranch. After breakfast, just before he left, he came in with a bemused look on his face. “Lorenz just talked to me in my mind. They twill be here this afternoon.”
Anna looked at him blankly and shook her head. “How could he from so far away?”
“I dinna. He has gone beyond me. I think, mayhap, he is now the teacher.” He smiled and gave her a hug. “I twill see ye ere supper.”
Anna knew he was using the time to study at the “machine” as she thought of it. Lorenz should be home at any time, and then she could quit worrying. He was already late in her mind, and she knew of all the evils on the trail and in the trail towns. She did not trust Herman Rolfe to prevent Lorenz and Martin from doing something stupid. Martin was steadier than his father, but he was young and three months away from his wife was a long time.
It was gunshots that roused her and straightened her back: First one, then two, then two more in rapid succession. The sounds came from the direction of the foothills, and Zeb would be coming home now. She dropped her hoe, grabbed Mina's hand, and ran to the gate. Her first thought was for the shotgun over the front door and they ran into the house, Mina repeating and repeating, “Mama, Mama, what's wrong.”
Finally she answered, “I don't know.” Her stomach was tight and so was her breathing. She knew this was bad and Zeb needed her. Pray God he was still alive. She took Mina to the cabin built for Ramon and his wife. Ramon was with Lorenz, but Armeda was there with her newborn. She shoved Mina inside and yelled, “Something has happened. Please vatch her. If Lorenz and Ramon come home, send them toward the foothills.” And she raced away, not bothering to hitch the team. The shots were too close for that.
She found him just outside the pasture, walking slowly and painfully, holding onto Zark's stirrup. When he saw her, he slumped forward on his knees, and crumbled, the wound in his lower back dripping blood.
He turned his head to look at her, his mouth forming words she barely heard. “'Twas Sh
elton's gunnies. Tell Lorenz – to – warn Herman.”
Anna ripped away his shirt and saw the bullet had taken a downward course. She used his knife to cut away her petticoat and staunch the bleeding What did she do now? She could not move him even with her strength, and help was too far away. If she left him he would die, and if she stayed he would die. It was then she heard the hoof beats, and Lorenz was riding toward her. She used the remaining part of her petticoat to tie down the material over the wound, ignoring the dirt that had collected on it as she ran it under his body.
“Ve must get him home!” she shouted at Lorenz. “Get help.”
Lorenz took one look and swung his horse around. She did not know how long she sat there holding Zeb's hand, telling him not to give up when Lorenz and Ramon appeared dragging a door behind Lorenz's horse.
Somehow between the three of them they shifted MacDonald onto the door, belly down. Lorenz looped a shorter length of rope around his body and door and tied him to the improvised travois.
“Not too tight,” she admonished.
“It has to hold him.” Lorenz's voice was grim. He tied two longer ropes lengthwise on each side of the door and handed the end of one to Ramon. “Tie it to your saddle, por favore.” He tied the other to his saddle horn.
“Mama, do you want to ride behind me?”
“Nein, I vill valk beside him. Du cannot go fast.”
As predicted, the going was slow and tedious. Anna tried with every ounce of her strength to keep the make-shift travois from bouncing, but it was futile. They dragged him around to the front porch, and then Ramon and Lorenz pulled the travois up onto the porch and lengthwise up to the now empty doorway into their bedroom. Anna said not a word about the chips in the jamb.
