by Lyn Cote
From his pocket Quinn pulled a round flat tin of oil and a rag. He began to clean his long rifle. He didn’t need to see the gun. He knew it by touch. He could hear Dorritt murmuring to herself. Was she still praying to her God? Would He protect her from her foolhardy stepfather?
Dorritt was a name he’d never heard before, but it fit her—a clean and strong-sounding name. She continued pacing. He couldn’t possibly feel her footsteps through the log floor or hear them, yet he thought he did. She was much too light and her shoes were soft-soled. Still, her continuous motion started winding the muscles up the back of his neck. “Why don’t you sit down?” The repeated question was out of his mouth before he realized he’d spoken.
In the gloom, the lady’s pale golden hair caught what little light there was. His unwilling eyes followed her as she drew near again. He couldn’t help asking, “What keeps you awake? Troubles you?”
Suddenly, she scowled. “Does it matter to you, a man? I’m just a woman. And a spinster at that. What I want doesn’t ever matter.”
Her voice was prickly like a cactus and she looked downcast. “That’s not true. Women count…sometimes.”
She gave him a sad laugh. “Sometimes? No, I don’t think so.”
He hadn’t meant to say that. Women did matter. But they weren’t like men. And after his mother died when he was a child, he’d had few women in his life. He didn’t know how to talk to them. He hadn’t sought a wife; life was too uncertain, too short it seemed to him. Still, he’d insulted Dorritt and that irritated him. “I meant no disrespect.”
She paused and gazed at him again. He saw the reflection of her large eyes and the lowlight. She said, “You were probably just being honest, refreshingly honest. May I ask you a question?”
He liked that she waited for permission and didn’t just go on and ask. “Yes.”
She drew a step nearer to him. “I shouldn’t be asking you this, but I find that I can’t stop myself. Where are you going in Texas?”
He thought of all he knew about her stepfather. “Nacogdoches.”
“But that’s where we’re headed.”
He heard the surprise in her voice. He knew why he and Kilbride were both headed for the same Spanish mission town. But of course, she didn’t.
She cleared her throat. “I know we discussed that Mr. Kilbride is the one that must ask you to be our guide. But if he did ask you, how much would you charge?”
He answered truthfully, “I don’t need money.”
“What do you need?”
“Sit down.” He patted the floor beside him. He couldn’t deny it. He wanted her near him—even for just a little while. She was a good woman with a good heart. Would she sit and talk with him, the half-breed, one more night?
Finally she sank down on the other side of the door, out of the direct draft and leaned back against the wall. “What do you need?” she repeated.
He liked how she always remained focused on what she wanted. “I don’t need it, but I want a thoroughbred colt. That’s what I went to New Orleans to find.” Finally he could speak some truth to her.
“A thoroughbred? Why would you need a thoroughbred? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Her question didn’t bother him. He was not a gentleman. A mustang should do for him. “I want to breed it with mustangs.”
“I see. We have a colt, as you know, and our mare is breeding too. I don’t know if Mr. Kilbride would part with either.”
“I doubt he would.” If he said he would, I wouldn’t believe him. “But why have you set out without a guide? This rough trail to Nacogdoches is difficult to follow on the other side of the Sabine. The Camino Real, the King’s Highway, is barely a trace, just a track really. Doesn’t your stepfather know this?”
“I don’t know.”
“So we are back where we talked last night. I cannot help you if he does not ask me.”
“I’ll think of a way.”
He went on working on his long rifle. He wondered if Dorritt would come up with a way. And if she did, would he agree to guide Kilbride, the man who’d cheated him? To protect her, he might. She would make some man a good wife. In fact, why wasn’t she married by now with children of her own?
Four
The hurricane finally gave up late the next afternoon. Dorritt waited, her hands clasped in front of her, holding onto hope. She hoped and prayed that their people had weathered the storm.
Quinn unbarred the door and stepped outside. Dorritt moved out behind him, followed by the rest of her family and the older couple. She breathed in the fresh clean air. After hours of dim light, Dorritt and everyone else blinked in the sunshine. She shaded her eyes, gazing around. Broken branches, stout and thin, leaves and wooden shakes lay upon the ground in disarray. Much of the paddock fence slumped and dragged on the muddy ground. Water puddled everywhere. During the early hours of the morning, she’d come up with a plan of how she might plant the idea of hiring Quinn as their guide in her stepfather’s mind. Now, she just had to wait for the right opportunity.
Quinn and the owner of the farm headed straight for the barn. Jogging on his short legs, Kilbride caught up with them. Dorritt hung back, waiting with the women around the door of the cabin, watching for Reva. Earlier, after everyone had awakened, Dorritt had kept her distance from Quinn. She wouldn’t give her stepfather and sister any cause to suspect she’d even noticed the Westerner. But memories of their hours together—virtually alone—kept coming to mind: the way his strong hands had moved over his long rifle, his low voice, strong and honest. She stiffened herself. She couldn’t afford foolish tender feelings or weakness on this journey.
At the barn, Quinn was lifting the bar across the double door, and he along with the older man pushed them back. Their people poured out, and as they looked skyward, they too shaded their eyes as if they were all just waking up after a long dreadful nightmare.
Reva lifted a hand and Dorritt waved back at her, her mood lifting. Knowing Reva was safe, Dorritt moved to her sister. “Jewell,” she said in a low voice, “it’s fortunate Mr. Quinn found this place and came back for us.”
Jewell merely shrugged.
Then Dorritt whispered closer to Jewell’s ear, “If we’re going to make it alive to Texas, it might be a good idea if your father hired Mr. Quinn as our guide. He is going to Nacogdoches too.”
Jewell walked away without replying, not an uncommon response. But Dorritt was depending on Jewell’s desire to survive and be well cared for. If Jewell made the suggestion, Mr. Kilbride might listen.
So Dorritt approached the barn, listening to the men discuss repairing the barn roof and paddock fence. Soon Quinn and a few of the slaves were busy gathering or making wooden shakes to replace those blown away and climbing onto the roof to pound them into place. While Mr. Kilbride, the gentleman, watched, leaning against the paddock fence. Dorritt and Reva went into the house to help their hostess prepare an evening meal. Her mother and Jewell took chairs and sat outside, watching the men work.
A few hours later, the men came in for the evening meal. They washed their hands at the basin by the door and then took their places on the benches around the long trestle table. Mr. Kilbride gave a long flowery prayer of gratitude to God and their host and hostess. Dorritt hated it when her stepfather prayed these florid and insincere prayers. She wondered how he had the nerve to think that he could fool God. And of course he didn’t mention Quinn’s kindness in coming after them and saving them from the storm. One didn’t thank a half-breed.
Quinn sat directly across from Dorritt while Mr. Kilbride sat at Dorritt’s elbow. She tried to keep her eyes from drifting toward Quinn’s. She had to act as if they had not become acquainted over the past three nights. She knew she should be famished but she was too keyed up to feel hunger.
“Mr. Quinn,” Jewell said in that flirty, arch way of hers, “we owe you a debt of gratitude, as well as to our kind host and hostess.” Ever the gracious lady, Jewell nodded toward the older couple, then turned
her gaze back to Quinn. “Dorritt was telling me that you are heading to Nacogdoches too.”
Dorritt clutched her fork. This was the worst possible tack Jewell could have taken. Jewell knew better than to mention Dorritt’s name in connection with any suggestion to her stepfather. Handling Mr. Kilbride took subtlety. Why was Dorritt the only one who saw reality?
“Yes, I know that Quinn is on his way to Nacogdoches,” Mr. Kilbride spoke up with a wide self-satisfied grin. “I didn’t say anything before because a man doesn’t like to boast. But it was Quinn who told me about Moses and Stephen Austin’s agreement with the Spanish Crown to bring American settlers to Texas. And Quinn is the reason that we are going to Nacogdoches in the first place.” Mr. Kilbride turned to Dorritt and gave her a taunting look.
Dorritt was confused. What did he mean that Quinn had told him about Austin? The two men couldn’t be acquainted. No. She refused to speak, afraid that she would say exactly the wrong thing.
Instead, Jewell voiced the prompted question, “Why is that, father?”
“Because Quinn lost ten head of cattle and two mustangs to me in a card game in New Orleans.” Mr. Kilbride lifted his tin cup toward Quinn. “Normally I wouldn’t mention this. No man likes others to know when he’s been bested.”
Dorritt betrayed herself with a gasp. Was Quinn truly the one that had started them off to Texas? He had gambled with her stepfather? And worst, he had recognized her father but had not betrayed this knowledge to her? As each of these realizations occurred to her, her heart dropped one more notch. She found that her mouth was open and closed it. She tightened her shaky grip on her fork. There could be no mistake. Jewell must have spoken to her father before the meal and planned to disconcert Dorritt.
Quinn said nothing, nor did he apologize to her. He sipped his coffee.
“Now, Quinn, though our association did not start out as a happy one,” her stepfather continued in a smooth charming tone, “perhaps you’d like to travel with us? Isn’t it always safer when one ventures into the frontier to travel with a larger party?”
Quinn did not reply. He stared into Mr. Kilbride’s face.
“Well?” Mr. Kilbride finally pressed him. “What do you say to my offer?”
“If you want me to guide you to Nacogdoches,” Quinn said in an implacable, completely cold tone, “I expect to be paid.”
The sudden flush of red that surged up Mr. Kilbride’s neck and face broadcast his anger. Dorritt found she couldn’t chew. The unmasked animosity between Mr. Kilbride and Quinn was palpable.
“You know you need a guide,” Quinn said in the same emotionless voice. “Texas isn’t U.S. territory. It’s wild and Spanish.”
“I’m sure you’re just the man for the job too,” Dorritt’s mother spoke up in a cheery tone, drawing all eyes to her. “I’m sure it’s God’s providence that we met up with you on the trail. How much is your fee?”
Dorritt put down her fork and clasped her hands in her lap. For once, perhaps her mother’s complete indifference to reality might work in their favor. Dorritt prayed silently it would, but with a sour taste in her mouth. She bit her lower lip. She could understand Quinn’s not wanting to reveal losing to Mr. Kilbride, but why hadn’t he let on that he knew him?
Quinn lifted his fork. “I don’t need money. But I would barter my service as your guide for the colt or the mare’s foal.”
Dorritt could sense her stepfather’s jaw clench although she kept her gaze on her plate. She knew he would not willingly part with either thoroughbred.
“What do you think, Mr. Kilbride? Is that a fair trade?” Dorritt’s mother asked, as usual out of touch with the tension her words had sparked.
Dorritt watched her stepfather grappling with how to come out on top in this situation. “That sounds fair to me,” Mr. Kilbride said at last. “Shall we shake on it?” He offered his hand across the table.
Quinn hesitated. “Just to Nacogdoches or to the Brazos or Colorado? I’ve heard both rivers mentioned as the place to meet Austin.”
“To the Brazos or Colorado Rivers and wherever Stephen Austin’s party is.” Her stepfather jerked his outstretched hand, demanding a reply.
“To the Brazos and Stephen Austin’s party,” Quinn repeated and shook Mr. Kilbride’s hand.
Looking down, Dorritt picked up her fork again and began eating. The food was wholesome and nourishing, yet tart disappointment spiced the meal. Hollow inside, she fought tears. She’d thought the man who sat across from her was a rare find, an honest man. But keeping back the truth was as bad as a lie.
Two days later in midafternoon, the Kilbride party reached Gaines Ferry at the Sabine, separating Louisiana and the Spanish colony. Though the worst of the hurricane had passed, high winds continued. At the head of the party, Quinn viewed the treacherous-looking current, which still carried branches, small logs, and other windfall downriver.
The ferryman puffed on a corncob pipe. “Yessir, that storm has made the river fast. Lucky that it didn’t overflow the banks. But the water is high, all right. You can see that.”
Quinn nodded, trying to judge whether they should cross today or wait until the morrow. He dismounted and began judging the wide wooden ferryboat, tethered to the shore with strong ropes. The sturdy-looking ferry rode the rapid river current. Spanning the river, thick ropes attached to the bargelike ferry, looped securely around formidable trees in the forest on each side of the river.
Kilbride trotted up on his stallion and looked over the water to the far shore. He ignored the rushing river. “Texas! And in only two weeks.”
“This current will make the crossing more dangerous.” Quinn turned to face Kilbride. But he looked past the man to Dorritt, standing by the gig. As usual, she carried a slave baby in her slender arms. The brim of her bonnet shielded her face from him, but he could see her firm chin. Since Kilbride had hired him as guide, she had refused to speak to him or even look at him. I should have told her everything.
“But this ferry appears quite substantial,” Kilbride objected. “Why should the current stop us?”
Were moneylenders chasing this man? Quinn turned away and studied the river again. He couldn’t understand this man’s hurry. He brushed aside Kilbride and tried to ignore the sensation of Dorritt’s disapproval. Why did he care what she thought of him? He was just the hired half-breed scout in her eyes.
Quinn pointed at the river. “If we cross now, we’ll have to put fewer people and stock on the ferry for each trip across. I don’t want to take the chance of anything or anyone being pitched into that drowning current. I don’t dare let the horses or oxen swim across. Even they could be swept away.”
Before Kilbride could reply, the grizzled ferryman spoke up, “Your guide’s right, mister. Best not push our luck by trying to carry everything across as we would in the normal way. The river’s way high. I’ll give you a cut on m’fare so you don’t pay for the extra trips across. Not your fault that we had a hurricane this week. So don’t you worry. And I wouldn’t risk my ferry if I thought it wouldn’t make the trip back and forth. If we’re watchful, all should scrape through.”
With this guarantee, Quinn nodded and proceeded to strike the bargain, ignoring Kilbride’s interruptions. Quinn shook the ferryman’s hand to seal it. Then he started to direct the slow process of unhitching cattle and unloading some of the boxed possessions stowed in each ox wagon. It would be best to take the extra time and get everything safely onto the Texas riverbank.
As Quinn told the Negroes how they would be crossing the river, Kilbride’s daughter, Miss Jewell, announced in a good likeness of her father’s high-handed manner, “I will cross with my mare. She’ll need me to stay calm.”
“I’m sorry but I must do what’s best for the stock,” Quinn told her. “Your mare will need a stronger hand on this crossing.”
Miss Jewell began to wrangle. But her mother beckoned her away and then talked to her apart from the rest. The girl didn’t look ready to settle down. He’d keep an
eye on Miss Jewell. She was her sire all over. He’d leave the women till last. If anything went wrong, they could take shelter in the ferryman’s cabin. There was only wilderness on the Texas side.
On the first trip across the swollen river, Negroes traveled across with boxes, which they then unloaded on the Texas shore. The oxen did not trust the unsettled river or the ferry. And it took the strength of two men and rags over the oxen’s eyes to still their nerves on the next two trips. The oxen made it safely to the other side, and Quinn’s hopes rose.
The people, the possessions, the other cattle were ferried across. Finally only the mare, the colt, and the ladies remained on the Louisiana side.
From the Texas side, Quinn called to them, “Just a few more trips and we will all be in Texas!” The mare and colt would cross ahead of them.
Quinn and one of the slave men came back to Louisiana to finish up the crossing. With a man pushing from behind, Quinn safely got the gig onto the ferry. Then he turned and offered his hand to Dorritt. She gave him a look he couldn’t read, but she let him help her onto the ferry. He had never held a woman’s hand that was gloved. It copied the way she had withdrawn from him ever since she’d found out he hadn’t told her about meeting her stepfather in New Orleans.
Holding the mare’s reins, Quinn waited with the other daughter on the Louisiana side. The mare was restless. The gig and Dorritt reached Texas. And the ferryman brought the ferry back to the Louisiana side.
“I will go across with my mare,” Kilbride’s daughter repeated with a mulish look.
“I’m sorry,” Quinn said, “but the mare is already spooked. It’s best I go alone—”
“She’ll do much better if I lead her,” Jewell insisted with a lift of her chin. “I helped train her.”
“No,” Quinn said. “You’ll stay where you’re told.” The mare whinnied and danced but Quinn succeeded in leading it onto the swaying ferry.
