by Lyn Cote
A bell rang in the mission at the end of the plaza. The sound kindled a longing to her heart. She had not been in a house of the Lord for over a month. She knew from living in New Orleans that the priest had rung the bell to call the faithful to matins, morning prayers. The longing inside her to be in a house of worship became a physical pull toward the mission.
She scrambled into her undergarments and the dress that had been laid out over the chair by the bed. She didn’t wear a bonnet, wishing to blend in with the peons walking toward church. Instead, she slipped her purse into her pocket, cast a shawl around her shoulders, and hurried downstairs and across the stirring plaza, hoping no one would see her. She felt as if she were going to a long-awaited tea at a friend’s house.
Seven
Dorritt entered the church. She pulled the shawl up over her hair, hoping no one would notice her. Though her stepfather attended church only because it was expected, if he found out she’d attended Mass, he would be angry. Still, inside the cool shadowy church, a sigh breathed through her. It was good to be in a house of the Lord again, even one that didn’t look like any church she’d ever attended. Catholics genuflected just as the Episcopalians did, so she performed this and then knelt on the cool half-log floor. The priest came out from behind the altar and began the service in Latin, lighting short white candles and exotic incense. Overhead, the few bells rang out once more and then fell silent.
Dorritt understood almost none of the Franciscan friar’s Latin liturgy. But even in this rough wood structure, the flickering candles and the statue of the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus reminded her so much of the St. Louis Cathedral in New Orleans that she shed a few tears of homesickness. Even though her family did not worship there, when in town she had always liked to sit in the back of the solemn cathedral. In her life, now filled with change and danger, this church was a bit of civilization on the wild frontier—a reminder that her Heavenly Father had not been left on the other side of the Sabine.
The prayers ended and she reluctantly rose from the back pew. As she left the cool, dimly lit mission, an elderly Mexican woman whose suntanned face was etched with deep lines stared at her. Dorritt nodded and smiled.
Outside from the shadows around the door, Mr. Quinn moved into the morning light. “Miss Dorritt, do you still want to buy a musket?”
He took her by surprise and she gasped. When she’d left the inn, he must have been watching for her. Had anyone else noticed her coming here? Like Jewell, who would use it to Dorritt’s disadvantage? “Yes, I do.”
He motioned toward the plaza. “I know a man here who might sell a gun.”
Dorritt felt a flash of excitement and fear. Knowing she should really return to the inn, she began walking beside him, unable to withstand the lure of the pleasure of his company. The silent men they passed nodded or tipped the brims of their hats to Quinn. She was not surprised that he was a man who was respected where he was known. She also noted the cast of speculation in the eyes of the men they passed. They were wondering who she was. And why she was with Quinn. Her stomach fluttered with her own daring. Texas seemed to be having this effect on her. “How long will we stay in Nacogdoches?” she asked.
“I think just a few days. Once we leave Nacogdoches, there aren’t any towns between here and the Colorado River. I thought you ladies would like a bit of easy living.”
She chuckled. In spite of general disapproval, walking beside this man was bit by bit relaxing her, lowering her usual guard. “You aren’t wrong. It was wonderful to wake in a bed this morning.” She glanced down and saw that his footwear had changed. “You’re wearing boots.”
“Yes, boots are better when I’m herding cattle.”
She looked at her dusty moccasins and wondered what wearing boots would feel like. She went on, “Herding cattle? Do you have cattle?”
“Yes, a few.”
“And mustangs, right?”
“A few.”
Dorritt smiled. No one would ever call Mr. Quinn talkative or a braggart.
“I see you went to church,” he said.
She could perceive no hidden meaning or reproach in his words. “Yes, that felt good too.”
“I don’t know much about the white man’s God. My mother taught me about the Creator of All who lives beyond the sun, the Green Corn festival, and such. My father taught me a little about heaven and hell and what he called the Ten Commandments.”
As usual, this man spoke to her without any agenda other than honestly sharing his thoughts. She nodded, but ventured to add, “Then you know more than you think you do. Did he ever speak to you about Jesus?”
“Yes, that is the man on the cross I’ve seen in the mission churches. The man who died for the sins of all. Do you think that is possible—one to die for all?”
The way he spoke so naturally about God stirred up an odd scratchy feeling inside, like ants running over her skin. “Yes, the Son of God died for our sins. But that’s because Jesus was not just a man, but a man and a god.”
“My father said that, but I have never understood it.”
As they walked, she gazed at Quinn’s profile, the assured lift of his chin. A free, confident man. If only all men were as honest and at ease with life. “It is not easy for anyone to understand. But if God is God, then he can do anything, can’t he?”
Quinn nodded. “Here is the man’s casa.” Inside the shady doorway of the modest log house, a Spaniard came forward and bowed slightly. Dorritt could tell from the man’s lighter complexion that he was a Spaniard, not a mestizo. In Spanish, Quinn told him what they needed. Soon, the man brought out a used musket. Quinn looked it over and then handed it to Dorritt. “It’s in good shape. Here, get the feel of it.”
She took it from him. It was cold and heavy. “How should I hold it?”
He looked pleased by her question. “When you are walking, you carry the musket like this.” He showed her how to rest the musket on her arms, its muzzle pointed down. “This is the India Pattern smoothbore muzzle-loader.” He patted the butt of the gun.
She nodded, repeating his information to herself. She was aware that the Spaniard was eyeing her with disapproval. Was it because she was a woman holding a musket? Or because she was with Quinn? Or both?
Quinn spent some time haggling over the price of the musket. And finally, at Quinn’s word, she handed over the silver pieces for the weapon.
Glancing around the quiet plaza, she decided to steal a few more moments of freedom. “Let’s go somewhere you can show me how to load and fire this gun. And I’d appreciate it if you’d start teaching me enough Spanish to get along with the Mexicans.” Because I won’t have you for long.
Quinn nodded, then led her away beyond the plaza. Dorritt resisted the feeling that she was being followed or watched. She glanced around many times, but did not see anyone suspicious, just Mexicans who, of course, looked curious about her, a stranger and an Anglo. She had been called that before, the short form of angloamericano, by Creoles, the older New Orleans residents of Spanish or French descent. And they used the term often with disdain. The French and Spanish both considered Americans gauche and crude. But as with anything, money always made the difference. A rich Anglo was still rich and, therefore, acceptable in society.
Soon they approached a small hut made of narrow standing logs with a thatched roof. Nearby was a large rudely fenced paddock. She had seen some of these in Texas already. “What is that kind of house called?”
Quinn nodded toward it and said, “It’s a jacal, made out of mesquite.”
She repeated it after him. It sounded like “ha-call.” She wondered how it was spelled.
He waved toward the paddock and said, “And this is called a potrero. Here are my mustangs.”
“Potrero,” she repeated as she drew closer and looked over the horses. “You have done well. Where did you get such fine stock?”
She watched Quinn’s deeply tanned face flush at her words. And she was glad she had complimented him.
“Ash and I went northwest through Comanche and Kiowa territory and gathered the wild cattle and mustangs that roam the frontier.”
“Aren’t the Comanche very dangerous?” she asked, aware of how how feminine she felt standing beside him.
“Yes, but Ash and I know how to pass unnoticed if we want to. We made many trips so we could slip in and out with a few at a time.”
She smiled at him. A brave man and a clever one. “Where are your longhorns?”
“They’re south of here,” Ash said, walking out of the hut and joining them. “We branded ours and left them grazing on a friend’s land.” He shook the hand Dorritt offered him.
“Yes,” Quinn added, “we’ll pick them up soon.”
As Dorritt turned, she brushed against Quinn’s shirt. The contact brought memories of their night alone by the river. She scrambled to distract herself. “May I ask about your unusual name? I’ve never met an Ash before. Or is it short for Ashley?”
Ash laughed with friendly amusement. “No, I’m not Ashley. That name is way too fancy for me. My mother’s father was from the Ashanti people in Africa. Or that’s what she told me. She named me Ash so I would remember her family.”
“That makes sense,” she said, wondering at his ability to laugh about his family being enslaved.
“And my family name from my father is Martinez. Just like the governor of Texas.” Ash grinned even broader. “I’m afraid he can’t claim kinship with me.”
She chuckled, liking his lack of pretension. Maybe she’d left behind all the pretentious people in New Orleans, except for her stepfather.
Ash looked around the clearing. “I see you didn’t bring along that pretty woman that Quinn told me is your maid.”
“Reva?” she asked.
“Reva. Now that’s a pretty name. It fits her.”
Before Dorritt could reply, Quinn pointed to the new gun. “Ash, Miss Dorritt has just bought this. And I’m going to teach her how to load and shoot it.”
“Is that so?” Ash asked with a dubious tone.
This sparked her own uncertainty. “I know it’s unusual for a woman to learn to shoot. Maybe too unusual.” She moved back as if distancing herself from the musket.
“Well, miss,” Ash replied, “it’s out of the ordinary. But you might have to shoot, say, a rattler.” He grinned.
“A rattler?” she said. “I’ve never seen one.”
“Well, they like Texas.” Ash leaned an arm on the top of the fence.
Dorritt took a deep breath. She felt uncomfortable being here with Quinn and Ash without a chaperone. And without her bonnet, her face exposed to the hot sun. Perhaps that explained her sense of unease. Or was God trying to tell her not to do this? But when she imagined one of the slave children disturbing a nest of rattlers, she knew she wanted to be prepared. She nodded twice—firmly.
In the midst of Quinn showing her how to load the musket, the padre from the mission shuffled up. “Buenos días, señorita y señors.” Then he added in heavily Spanish-accented English, “Good morning.”
Dorritt curtsied and greeted him in Spanish, a mistake because he started speaking to her in rapid Spanish. She held up her hand. “Pardon me, padre. I speak only a little bit of Spanish as yet.”
He smiled at her. “I saw you at matins today. So even though you are an Anglo, you must be a faithful daughter of the church.”
“I don’t to want to mislead you, padre—”
He interrupted her with upraised palms. “You need to say nothing. Your actions speak louder than words.”
Ash whispered into her ear, “Never blurt out the truth to a Spaniard. They don’t like it. Appearances are everything in Spanish society.” Then he turned to the padre. “Quinn is going to teach Señorita Dorritt how to protect herself from rattlesnakes.”
“¡Excelente!” the padre approved with another broad smile.
Looking past the priest, Dorritt saw that the same elderly woman she’d noticed in church had followed the priest from the plaza. She came limping toward them, but stopped in the shade of an oak tree and lowered herself onto a tree stump used for chopping wood into kindling. The woman seemed to stare at her. Dorritt imagined nothing much ever happened in the sleepy town. Any stranger, especially an Anglo, would be of interest. She turned and followed Quinn.
Beyond the paddock, he had gone farther toward the remains of a log cabin. One wall had been half torn down. Quinn picked up chunks of wood and sat them like a row of soldiers on the half wall. Then he placed the musket butt into her shoulder, showed her how to extend her left arm to support it, how to close one eye, sight down the barrel, and how to release the flintlock to fire. The wood and metal tucked so close, so intimate, made her stomach jump in odd little skips. Or was it the inadvertent brushing and touching of Quinn’s strong tanned hands on her skin?
Quinn’s striking blue eyes delved into hers. “You must be careful to place the butt right because of the recoil.”
Unable to look away from him, transfixed, she murmured. “Recoil?”
“When it fires,” Quinn replied, “expect it to jump back against you.”
Oh, dear. That didn’t sound like something she wanted to deal with.
“Are you ready to try?” Quinn asked her.
No, I’m not ready. But of course she couldn’t say that. I started this and I must either go through it or stop now. I hope this is from you, Father. She took a deep breath, adjusted her aim. She released the bolt. To the sound of an explosion. The musket lurched in her arms. Nearly knocked her off her feet. If Quinn hadn’t been right behind her and steadied her, she would have fallen. She gasped, leaning back against him. He held her in place with his hands firm on her shoulders.
Raucous laughter finally penetrated her deafened ears. She turned and saw that four Mexicans, all obviously mestizos, lounged back against the paddock fence. Three of them were jeering and mocking her. One of them, however, was merely gazing at her as if taking her measure. She studied him. He was a bit taller with a lighter complexion than the others. Two other things set him apart; he wore finely tooled leather boots and silver spurs that glinted in the sun.
Her face flushed with aggravation. This surprise attack, this vulgar intrusion, had shattered this private time. In effect, reality had just slapped her face. Rigid with defiance, she turned her back to them. Her voice gritty and harsh in her throat, she said to Quinn, “Please show me how to load this gun again.”
He glanced at the mestizos and then back at her. “Don’t let them throw you. You did fine for your first time.” He helped her reload the musket with ball and powder. A little shaky, she turned her back to the Mexicans and lifted the musket back into place. “That’s right,” Quinn murmured close to her ear. “Fire when ready.”
Set to prove her determination to the mockers, she braced herself and shot the gun. This time she had better luck staying on her feet. And she had the satisfaction of seeing that her shot actually hit the wall, if not the target. She grinned.
“Not bad,” Ash said.
The priest agreed in warm tones. Then he added, “You have heard of the trouble here in Mexico, yes?”
Dorritt was reloading the musket with Quinn’s help. “What trouble?”
“The revolution.” He shook his head. “I am told we are all to say, ¡Viva Independencia!”
“What revolution?” Quinn asked for her.
“Word has come that we are no longer a Spanish colony. No longer under the Crown.”
“But we just saw Spanish troops on the way here,” Dorritt objected, drawing closer to Quinn.
The priest shook his head. “There has been a revolution. This is now the Republic of Mexico, no longer a Spanish colony. But nothing here has changed. You see there are so few of us and we are so far north of Mexico City.” He shrugged. “Nearly ten years ago, Padre Hidalgo tried to bring about a revolution—”
“And all it did was get a lot of people killed and him executed,” Ash commented with a dark look. “Do you
think the new government will care anything for the poor?”
The priest shrugged. “Who can say?”
Ash gave his opinion with a loud snort.
Talk of a revolution gave Dorritt gooseflesh. “Will that affect the Austin settlement? I mean Austin’s agreement will hold strong even if the government has changed, won’t it?” This was worrying news, since Austin was farther south, much closer to Mexico City and the government. And the army.
The priest held up his hands. “Only God knows. A few other Anglos have come through Nacogdoches on their way to the mouth of the Colorado River. That is where the Anglos are to meet Don Estevan Austin.”
Dorritt looked into the eyes of Quinn, who looked as troubled as she felt. “I hope…” She couldn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t want to put into words the fear that they would go all the way to the mouth of the Colorado and then be turned back. As Quinn helped her reload the heavy musket, his hand skimmed her shoulder. Another touch, another instinctive reaction, a heightening of awareness.
One of the mestizos jeered her, “Have you given up so soon, señorita? You should leave guns to men!”
She quelled the temptation to turn the musket toward the voices. Instead, she hardened her jaw, finished reloading, and lifting the musket to her shoulder, took aim. Quinn leaned close, checking her stance, igniting a fresh tide of sensitivity to him.
“What do you think you’re doing, young lady?” her stepfather’s voice thundered across the clearing.
Dorritt went ahead and fired. After the smoke cleared, she said, “I am learning how to shoot a musket.” In spite of a twitch in her throat, she kept her voice cool, as if she were sitting in the parlor, stitching her azalea pattern. Amos was a step behind her stepfather. He’d been keeping the boy with him, so he had someone convenient to vent his irritation on.
