by Lyn Cote
“I’m with you there.”
Dorritt looked away, still flushed with the intimacy of that night where nothing had happened but perhaps when everything might have changed. Mr. Quinn was the wild card in this move west. Or maybe just the first harbinger of the unexpected challenges ahead.
“Well, maybe Mr. Quinn spoke the truth,” Reva said.
“What do you mean?” Dorritt still didn’t look into Reva’s eyes, keeping her telltale face hidden.
“Mr. Quinn say on the frontier a man’s honor is everything. Maybe you were right.”
“Right about what?” Dorritt couldn’t follow Reva’s logic.
“That maybe we find our freedom in Texas,” Reva said earnestly. “Maybe we can find honest men, good husbands in Texas.”
Dorritt didn’t reply to this. When Reva became free in the future—as Dorritt hoped, Reva would likely marry because she’d need a husband’s protection and support. But marriage in Dorritt’s mind equaled bondage and a bondage harder to escape than the one she lived under now.
It was possible that Mr. Quinn was what he appeared to be, an honest man. Even a good man. But race would always separate them in the eyes of the world. She seemed to be the only white person who saw people as more than the color of their skin. Why this was so she’d never figured out. But a lady like she did not marry a half-breed scout. She—along with Quinn—would be shunned. Her mother would die of the scandal. And in the end, long ago, she’d put away a girl’s romantic notions of a fine gentleman who would love her and take her away. No, she must learn to take care of herself here in Texas, not depend on any man.
She shook her head and came back to the present. “Reva, stay clear of my stepfather. I don’t want him…taking out his anger on you.”
Reva nodded. “I hear you.”
The sun was dipping low on the horizon when the party stopped and made camp for the night. Deeply uneasy and wary, Dorritt watched their people, very subdued, go through the routine of settling the horses, cattle, and oxen to graze among the pine trees for the night and getting the evening meal started. Each face looked apprehensive; every one of them afraid of what Mr. Kilbride might do next. A red-shouldered hawk swooped overhead.
Nearby, Jewell walked at her father’s side, talking and no doubt stoking his anger. Mr. Kilbride stalked up and down the line, cuffing ears and swearing for no reason. Dorritt resisted the urge to intervene. Her stepfather was in a dangerous mood. She chewed her lower lip. Almost anything could cause a whipping tonight, a vicious one.
Then Amos had the misfortune to trip and drop some kindling wood he’d gathered. Mr. Kilbride swung around and backhanded the boy, cursing him. All the other slaves froze where they were. Dorritt saw the fear in their eyes, felt it shiver through her. Mr. Kilbride scanned the people nearest him and roared, “Get back to work! You lazy good-for-nothings! When we get to Nacogdoches, I’m going to sell some of you! Worthless! Shiftless!”
“Yes,” Jewell loudly agreed with him. And with a pointed glance toward Dorritt, Jewell added, “That Reva isn’t earning her keep. My maid can do for both my sister and me.”
Waves of panic from the slaves flowed to Dorritt. Jewell was trying to hurt her in her weakest spot, her concern for their people, especially Reva. Mr. Kilbride held the power of life and death, slavery or freedom over Reva, the person in the world Dorritt loved the most. Dorritt turned away as if she hadn’t heard. Show no fear. But Jewell’s treachery made Dorritt decide she would pursue her new goal. Yes, she would ask Mr. Quinn.
It was time she did more than tell herself that she would be ready to take care of herself. And today, Mr. Quinn had protected her from Mr. Kilbride. She already owed Quinn much and he owed her nothing, but she would still ask. She shut her eyes for a moment of prayer. Oh Father, protect us. Then she tried to force away the warmth that rushed through her at the memory of Mr. Quinn defending her.
As Quinn crouched, starting a fire for the cook, he watched Kilbride’s slaves go about their tasks in fear. How did a stupid man get so much wealth? Was it just that Kilbride was a clever cheat? Why hadn’t someone put a bullet into the man by now? It was a riddle. And why had Dorritt stopped Quinn from forcing Kilbride to apologize to her? He needed to know. He needed to talk to her. And there had to be some way to protect her from her stepfather.
It’s not my place. Let it be. Even as Quinn thought this, he heard a sharp crack and looked toward it. Kilbride had slapped the young black who’d come on the mule after Quinn and Dorritt. The other slaves all looked away. Quinn rose from near the fire he’d just started. Even from many feet away, as if his rising were a threat, Kilbride glared at Quinn.
“She too good for this family,” the old cook muttered beside him.
Quinn glanced at the woman’s dark, lined face.
“Yes, you know who I’m talkin’ about.” The older woman turned away and began mixing cornbread-cake batter to fry on a cast-iron griddle.
Quinn nodded. More and more he thought that he shouldn’t leave Dorritt at the Brazos with her family. He could not think of what to do for her. But he must find another place for her where she would be safe and free of her stepfather. How he didn’t know.
Night had fallen; the camp was quiet when Quinn sensed someone approaching him in the dark. Quinn slipped his knife from its sheath into his hand and rolled up to meet whoever it was.
Dorritt’s maid held up both hands. “I’m Reva,” she gasped. “My mistress say to come and get you. The mare is foaling.”
As he followed the maid and passed the wagons, he heard Kilbride, that worthless man, snoring. Everyone slept, but Dorritt, the true leader, was awake. At the end of the caravan, she walked the mare, stroking her neck, murmuring to the animal. “Mr. Quinn,” she greeted him quietly, “things are going apace. This foal might be yours, so I thought you’d like to be here for its birth.”
He nodded, still wondering why she oversaw every part of the family’s life and property. Then he noticed she wasn’t alone attending the birth. Two male slaves hovered nearby over a low fire.
She answered Quinn’s unspoken question, “I’m not really needed but I like to watch little ones born. Even kittens. It’s such a miracle.”
Her voice sounded excited. Sudden hope jolted him too. When he’d lost at cards in New Orleans, he’d thought his chance to own a thoroughbred had ended. And this woman understood that, understood that he’d want to be here for the birth.
“Would you like to walk her?” Dorritt asked him.
He was so pleased he couldn’t say a word. But he managed to nod and took the mare’s bridle. The birth of a foal wasn’t anything new to him. But this would be his first thoroughbred foal—unless Kilbride decided to part with the colt. Suddenly Quinn knew that this mare would bear a filly. That had been what he’d wanted most to start his Texas thoroughbred line. A filly, mother to his line of mixed mustang thoroughbreds. He led the mare around and around, listening to her labored breathing. Dorritt walked beside him. He liked her near him.
For the first time in his life, he regretted that he was what and who he was. He was a half-breed and he knew how little whites thought of those with mixed blood. She was a white lady of much learning. And he couldn’t even read and write. What did a man without property like him have to offer someone fine like her? But perhaps he could find someone, a white man of honor, who would recognize her worth. That was one solution of how to break Dorritt away from her family. But the idea set his teeth on edge.
Finally, she murmured to him, “Thank you for…for what you did for me today. I appreciated it.”
Quinn’s anger flashed through him afresh. His words rushed out, “He has no right to hit you for telling the truth. Has he hit you in the past?”
“No, at least, not since I became an adult.”
“Why have you not taken a man, a husband?” These words also burst out before he could stop them. Why don’t you have someone to protect you?
She didn’t answer him right away. “Y
ou mean why did I stay with my family?”
“Yes. Why?” He wanted to know.
“I don’t wish to marry.”
“But every woman wishes to marry,” Quinn said, the words again slipping out with no forethought.
“I’ve been told that many times.” She stopped and stroked the mare’s belly with long slow comforting motions. Not looking at him, she asked, “Why haven’t you married? Or am I wrong? Are you married already?”
“I have never settled down. I am twenty-eight years. My father died at thirty. And I have nothing to offer a wife.”
She did not reply to this, but said, “I have a favor to ask of you.”
“What?” He watched her face in the low light.
“I wish to buy a rifle of my own. Will you help me? Will there be guns for sale in Nacogdoches?”
A rifle? He looked at her in the low light, surprised. “You could not handle a rifle.”
“Because I’m a woman?”
“No, because you could not hold up a long rifle.” He paused and lifted his firearm from his back. “Here. Try to hold it and aim it.”
She tried but the nose of the gun ended up in the dirt. “It’s too heavy and too long.”
Nodding, he took the gun back. “You could learn to shoot a musket. It has a shorter barrel. Why do you want to have a gun?”
She released a loud sigh. “I don’t want to shoot anyone, but I think I should be armed—just in case…” Her voice faded away.
Just in case what? he thought, but only nodded. Kilbride was no protection for her. The mare was closer now to the birth. He saw the pace speed up.
Dorritt touched his sleeve. “My stepfather will try to cheat you of this foal, you know that?”
Her slight touch made him almost unable to speak. “Yes.”
Then their conversation ended. The mare began the final stages of giving birth. He stepped forward and helped the two men with the newborn foal. With old sacking, he rubbed down the little filly. He looked up at Dorritt, grinning. “This is the one I want.”
She nodded, but her eyes repeated what she had said earlier: “My stepfather will try to cheat you.”
Quinn nodded just barely, grimly. He may try, but he will not succeed.
Their caravan arrived in Nacogdoches the next day. Quinn was familiar with the small sleepy village with its mission church made of mesquite poles and mud at the center of town where the plaza was. Here, instead of the more imposing one in San Antonio de Bexar, the plaza was a large unkempt green with clumps of dandelions and thistle. When he’d told Dorritt that there was a church here, she’d acted like it would be something like St. Louis Cathedral in New Orleans. He’d warned her not to expect much. But right now her expression was easy to read: We’ve come all this way for this?
Quinn led them to the one sad-looking inn. Kilbride dismounted, swaggering inside. Quinn followed him, leaving his reins with Amos. The business didn’t take long and Quinn came out of the inn just as his friend, tall and dressed in buckskins, rode up on a fine mustang stallion. He slid from his saddle and met Quinn in the shade under the porch of the inn. “Well, Quinn,” the black man drawled in a voice that had a touch of a Spanish accent mixed with an American one, “I see you finally found your way back to Nacogdoches. Later than I expected. I’d almost decided some Louisiana wildcat got you.”
“Ash,” Quinn greeted him with a smile and an upraised hand, wondering how Kilbride would react when he met Ash, who was almost family to Quinn.
“Did you get what you went to New Orleans for?” Ash scanned the caravan.
“In a way.” Quinn gestured toward the end of the caravan where the little foal was nursing her mother. “We’re going to have to go southwest to the Brazos first. I’m leading this party to meet up with Stephen Austin.”
Mr. Kilbride stepped outside. “Who is this person?” His tone oozed disdain.
Quinn shifted his gaze to Kilbride. Distaste for the man soured his mouth. “This is Ash. My partner.”
Ash offered Kilbride his hand and Quinn knew why. Ash always wanted to know where he stood with someone new.
Kilbride just looked at the hand and turned away.
Quinn burned to have it out with this self-important liar.
But Ash just chuckled. And withdrew his hand. “So, Quinn, you signed up to take this party to Austin, then? I didn’t count on going that far west. I thought we were going to head down to Santa Roseta way. See about a job.”
Kilbride swung back. “Does this Negro have his manumission papers?”
Leaning back against a rough porch post, Quinn let Ash speak for himself. He glanced at Dorritt. He would like to introduce Ash to her. But not now.
Ash casually shoved up the brim of his hat and gave Kilbride a look of mild interest. “I don’t need any manumission papers. I was born the son of a mestizo padre and free negro madre. This is Spanish territory. There’s no slavery here.”
Kilbride said in a bitter lowered voice, “But there are plenty of runaway slaves here in Texas.”
“We Tejanos don’t think much of slavery. Or slave owners,” Ash commented in the same tone as Kilbride.
The man refused to acknowledge Ash and continued to glare at Quinn. “I won’t have any free Negro in my party. It’s unnatural.”
Quinn grinned suddenly. “If you decide, after our agreement has been struck, that you no longer need me, I still get my foal.” It was beginning to almost amuse Quinn to see how easy it was to fire up Kilbride. “Is that what you want?” Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a Spanish soldier strolling through the plaza. And four Mexican vaqueros watching them closely.
“I am not breaking our agreement, either of our agreements. You owe me ten head of cattle and two mustangs. But neither agreement mentioned having a free black along. It isn’t good…” Kilbride pursed his lips as if he just recalled why he shouldn’t be calling notice here and now to his owning slaves. Maybe he had noticed the Spanish soldier too? “I don’t like it.”
“You mean,” Ash taunted Kilbride, “that you didn’t know that there was no slavery in Spanish territory? Aren’t all these people—” he gestured toward the slaves in the caravan, “—free?”
“They are indentured servants,” Kilbride snapped, his eyes darting to the soldier who had paused and was eyeing them in turn.
Quinn pushed up his hat brim just as Ash had. And grinned. Leave it to Ash. “ That’s right. And Mr. Kilbride has the papers to prove it.”
“Then unless Mr. Kilbride—” Ash nodded politely toward Kilbride. “—wants to lose his guide and his foal, I guess I’ll be going with you to the Brazos.”
Quinn enjoyed watching Kilbride try to hide his aggravation. Finally the man gave the barest nod to Quinn and stalked toward his wife and daughter. On his way past Amos, Kilbride cuffed the boy hard enough to knock him down.
Ash made as if he were going after Kilbride, but Quinn stopped him with a shake of the head. It would only cause more trouble for Dorritt. And the slaves. “Not now,” Quinn muttered. But soon.
He hadn’t expected anything unusual on the way home from Louisiana after the cattle drive. Now he stood here in Nacogdoches with his cousin and two compañeros watching the plump Anglo be bested by the half-breed Quinn and his friend the negro Ash. Both Quinn and Ash had reputations as men not to be trifled with. Well, he wasn’t planning on trifling with them. But these Anglos—he didn’t like more whites coming into Texas. The Spaniards and Creoles had lorded it over men like him long enough. Mexico should be for Mexicans. The rumors he’d heard in Louisiana about angloamericanos who were entering the Spanish territory to become legal residentes of Texas must be true. What was the government in Mexico City thinking? But now that the government had changed hands, Mexico belonged to the Mexicans at last. The Spaniards would leave. And no Anglos should be welcome. If he could help it.
This trip was supposed to have been just another cattle drive, one of many. This, however, was the first time his cousin had accompani
ed them. Did his cousin finally suspect how much had been secretly stolen from him in the past when the cattle had been sold without his presence at the transaction?
One of the Anglos, a señorita, walked into the bright sunshine. She turned and looked directly at him, and as her bonnet slid to her shoulders, he glimpsed her face. Her wind-tousled hair fluttered in the sunlight. And her skin was the palest he’d ever seen. He saw his cousin staring at her, staring at her in a special way. My cousin wants her? If so, can I use this attraction to hurt him? I will keep watch and see.
Dorritt woke the next morning in a small upstairs room in the inn and stretched luxuriously like a cat. The bed was not wide or comfortable but it was a bed. And she’d had a bath the night before. What a difference these mundane comforts made. She rose and went to the window and, looking out, prayed her morning prayer, “Father, let me be the woman you want me to be today.”
As she gazed out over the city square, or as the innkeeper had called it, the plaza, the town was just coming to life. It reminded her a bit of the town square, back in her home state Virginia, with its commons where anyone could let their cows, goats, and sheep graze.
A vague and troubling uneasiness plagued her. They were deep in Texas. In a few weeks, they would arrive at the Austin settlement, still deeper into the wild Spanish Texas. Would they be welcomed or turned away? Would she really have the nerve to purchase a weapon and learn how to fire it?
A few Mexicans rode into the plaza and slid off their horses. Though they were still in a piney woods, everything looked different here in the kind of people and their dress. The Spanish evidently preferred more colorful and embellished clothing than Americans. And the differences between those with wealth and those without also showed up more sharply in their clothing. Yesterday, Dorritt had even seen Indians roaming the square, bare-chested and scantily dressed in buckskin. And there had been darker-skinned Mexicans, called mestizos, who were of Spanish and Indian blood, alongside the more European-looking Spanish. Down on the street, one of the Mexicans stared up at her window. Could he see her? She stepped back away from the window, embarrassed.
