A Place Called Harmony (20 page)

Dollar still stood over Jack’s body, as if fascinated by the dark stain of blood pooling in the dirt. Finally, he raised his attention to Clint. “You going to die so easy, Truman?”

“No,” Clint said, showing no sign of being afraid. “I plan to haunt you all the way into hell, Dollar, just as probably all the other men you killed will. You’re not worth the air it takes to keep you alive. You never have been.”

Dollar Holt raised his gun, and Clint braced for the bullet. He figured if he made the outlaw mad enough Dollar would forget about shooting him in the legs first.

Only before Dollar could pull the trigger, what sounded like a cannon going off behind them rattled the air as a flash blinked bright in the night before the world fell back into total blackness.

One of the men holding Clint let out a cry of pain and dropped to his knees, then fell forward in the dirt.

Clint saw his chance. He swung the other man around as the bullet from Dollar’s gun fired, hitting the man in the back.

Suddenly, all was chaos. The old dog barked. A woman screamed and what sounded like blow after blow hitting flesh came out of the darkness.

Clint pulled his Colt but couldn’t make out the shadows clear enough to fire. One shadow, bigger than the others, moved through the low clouds just beyond the wagons. Clint fired at the big man, once, twice, but it was too dark to know whether he hit his mark.

He heard running and swearing and then the sound of horses galloping away.

In what seemed like a blink, silence settled over the circle of wagons. Then whispers in Italian as Momma Roma checked on each of her boys. Clint didn’t breathe until the third boy answered.

Slowly his eyes adjusted to the darkness, but he didn’t move. One of Dollar’s men could be ten feet away. Clint hadn’t been able to count the robbers. There could have been four, or five, or maybe even six if he counted Jack. He couldn’t tell how many had ridden away. Two, maybe three.

In the stillness, he heard the strike of a flint and saw the flicker of flames. The little boy was lighting a fire. A minute later the campfire ignited and the inside circle of the wagons was visible. The mules were still stacked at one side. The wagons were all in place. And his people?

Clint began to count. The two Roma brothers were sitting on a man who looked like he’d been beaten. Both boys had patches of red on their faces but were smiling as they tied the outlaw up. The man must have weighed as much as both of them, but they’d fought him and won.

Harry Woolsey, the other regular driver, was rubbing the back of his head and holding a rifle. “I had one of them cornered, but something hit me from behind. I was only distracted for a minute, but the one I thought I had for sure got away.” Woolsey moved closer to Truman. “You mind if I put another bullet in Jack? He wanted me dead. I was close enough to hear what he said to the leader.”

“I know how you feel, but no, you can’t. It might scare Granny.” Clint looked around. “Where are the women?”

Everyone started searching, well aware that the fight might not be over yet. It took only a few minutes to find the women. Momma Roma was leaning over her mother, crying softly.

“Is she dead?” Woolsey asked.

Momma Roma shook her head. “I think’a the kick from the old musket knock’a her off the wagon.”

Gigi moaned and everyone let out a breath. Momma Roma shouted in joy and hugged Woolsey, who didn’t seem to mind a bit.

Clint lifted the old woman up from where she’d fallen between the wagons and cradled her as if she were a child. “Tell her thank you for saving all our lives.”

“I no have to. She know.” Momma Roma straightened proudly. “I tell’a you she only ever need’a one bullet.”

“You tell her that from this night on”—Clint said the words slowly—“tell her she and her family are my family.”

Momma Roma cried as she translated, which made Gigi cry and then the boys, still high on adrenaline, start shouting.

Clint turned to Woolsey. “It appears I’ve claimed a very noisy family.”

The next morning, the Roma boys buried three outlaws. Jack West was the only name scratched on a cross. The one Granny shot and the outlaw who took the bullets meant for Clint were buried as unknowns.

Clint walked out in the direction he’d fired last night. In the spot where he’d seen the big shadow of a man, blood dotted the ground until horses’ hoofprints scattered the dirt. He’d hit Dollar, but the man had managed to climb on his horse and ride away. From the looks of the trails, five men had ridden in and two rode out, with one dripping blood.

An hour later, with the one outlaw tied up and nestled in with the supplies, and Granny Gigi surrounded by blankets as she rested, Clint discovered another fact. Momma Roma, who didn’t weigh a hundred pounds with rocks in her pockets, could drive a wagon as well as any of the men. Clint wanted to relieve her, but he needed to stay in the saddle and circle, making sure Dollar Holt and his one remaining gang member weren’t close. They’d be fools to try to strike again, but Dollar didn’t seem a man long on brains.

Late that afternoon Granny Gigi began to cough up blood, and everyone worried. They stopped to rest the horses, but no one wanted to stop for the evening. Momma Roma made coffee, but no one ate. As darkness settled in, the nightmare of the fight stayed with them.

Harry came to Clint and said he knew the trail from here on in and could lead the way, so long before dawn they were moving again. All with one goal: to reach the trading post as fast as possible.

Clint kept circling by the wagon that held the old woman. She tried to sleep, but pain kept her awake. By dawn she looked pale and the coughing was worse. The blow to her chest and shoulder might have done more damage than she was willing to admit.

When he suggested stopping for a while so she could rest easier, Momma Roma shook her head. “She say’a she want to get to the town you call’a Harmony.”

Clint shook his head. “Harmon Ely owns the place. It’s not even a town yet.”

“Granny say she will not’a stop until she is in’a this place called Harmony. We must keep’a going.”

T
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“Fourteen days,” Patrick McAllen said to his brother. “Truman has been gone two whole weeks. I’m sure he’s lying dead somewhere and we’re talking about him like he’s alive.”

Shelly glanced up and frowned.

“All right, Shelly, I’m talking about him like he’s dead. I’ll stop. I got a feeling the man would not be happy if he heard I was saying he kicked the bucket. Course, if he’s dead, he wouldn’t care one way or the other.”

Patrick hauled a few more river rocks from the wagon to where they were working on a fireplace, and then he stopped to rest. “I don’t know why I can’t shake this feeling that something is going to happen. Something bad. It’s like I can almost hear the fuse burning down and the dynamite is going to blow any moment. Something bad is coming and it’s heading straight toward me.”

He’d made it halfway back with another load of rocks when Annie pulled up with a lunch basket.

Patrick smiled. “Now that will cheer me up. I think I’ll give up worrying for lunch.” He waved as he walked toward her. “About time you got here. Shelly’s starving to death.”

He helped her down, swung her around, and loved the way she laughed. For Patrick, the day had suddenly gotten a great deal brighter.

As she set everything out on a blanket in the buckboard, Patrick looked back at their project. They’d finished Truman’s fireplace a week ago and the two in Matheson’s bigger house three days ago. If the weather held, Shelly and he would finish his fireplace in a few hours. “This fire will warm us all winter for a hundred winters.”

Annie smiled up at him as she always did. “It’s going well?”

He nodded. “Shelly loaded the wagon with wood this morning. We’ve got enough nails to frame in Truman’s place before dark. If we can get the roof on we’ll be able to keep working even if it rains.”

“The captain says he’s riding over after lunch and bringing his oldest boy. They plan to help with the framing.” Annie straightened and kissed Patrick’s cheek.

As always, she blushed. He didn’t say a word about it or she’d only blush more or, worse, stop kissing on him. And kissing on him in daylight drove him mad. He tried to remember what they’d been talking about. Oh, yeah, the kid. “Matheson’s little fellow can’t do much beyond carrying nails.”

Annie agreed. “Didn’t you start out carrying nails for your big brothers when they built Solomon’s first church in Galveston?”

“I did. My oldest brothers were almost grown before I could walk. They always worked as a team just like Shelly and I do. Even went to war together and died together on the battlefield. My other two brothers were five and six years younger, so they missed the war, but after they heard about the oldest two dying, they went wild. My father tried to control them but he couldn’t. When they went to the devil, he swore he’d kill me before he gave up another son to Satan.”

Annie looked from Shelly to Patrick and whispered, “You both think Solomon is coming for Patrick, don’t you?”

Neither answered, but Patrick saw the truth in Shelly’s eyes. A worry became a fact in one blink. His silent brother had been having the same thoughts. “You followed me here because you know he’s coming, don’t you, Shelly?”

Shelly shrugged, and for the first time Patrick knew that a shrug could be a lie. He’d seen it in his brother’s eyes. Shelly had stayed behind a week. He must have heard his father’s ranting. He knew what Solomon wanted to do and he’d come here to make sure it didn’t happen.

Patrick didn’t have to know the details; he could imagine them. Solomon must have gone into a rage and brooded for days after he woke that Sunday morning to find his son gone. Then he’d probably stormed out of his study and declared that he would find Patrick. That would have been about the time Shelly slipped away. He’d seen the map on the post office wall. He knew where to come. Knowing Shelly, he’d made sure to leave no tracks heading in the right direction. He may have even planted false notes or maps before he disappeared.

Their father was coming, not after Shelly, but for him. He was the one who was supposed to follow in his father’s footsteps. Solomon had six sons, and as far as he was concerned they’d all betrayed him. Patrick knew there would be no beating in a barn this time, there would be a murder. His murder. Solomon would rather see him dead than free.

There was no need to talk about it. No need for him to worry Annie. Solomon was his and Shelly’s hell. One fact bothered him more than the fear of death. If his father got to him Shelly would already be dead because he wouldn’t stand by and watch another beating.

Patrick forced a smile. “Don’t worry about it, Annie. He’ll never find us, and if he does, he’ll find men, not boys. We’re not going back, not ever. Right, Shelly?”

For the first time in their marriage Patrick was lying to Annie. He told himself he had to. She would only worry. Only, when Solomon did come, it might be too late for Patrick to say he was sorry he lied.

Shelly moved over to pick up his lunch without looking at them, and Patrick switched the talk to house plans. “We got to think ahead, Annie. There’s going to be lots of kids one of these days and we’ll outgrow this two-room house pretty fast.”

“Give it time, Patrick; we don’t have to do everything at once. We’ve got years. After living in one room, this place will be a palace.” She looked at the hearth. “Can I have a window that faces the sunrise and a flower box just for herbs?”

“Of course.” Patrick smiled down at her, but the lead in his heart was still there. Somehow he didn’t feel like he had time. Weeks maybe, but not years. “As soon as we get the door framed in I plan to hammer up a horseshoe and we’ll catch all the luck we need.”

“And I’ll hang scissors just inside to cut any trouble that blows inside in half.” She laughed. “My own house; just think, Patrick, I’ll have my own house.”

“Wait, I’ll be there.”

She frowned. “Oh yeah, I forgot. We’ll have my own house. You can have the land and the barn, but the house is mine, unless you want to help clean it.”

“No,” Patrick said. “You’ll have your own house. I’ll just live there with you. As long as I’m sleeping next to you, I’m happy.”

She handed him lunch. “I like that idea.”

He took a bite of the biscuit stuffed with ham and tried to smile, but he noticed that Shelly tossed his lunch into the grass and walked down toward the creek.

The girl, Jessie, was there with her pony. Patrick had seen her talking to Shelly before and wondered what she had to say to a man who never answered back.

The faraway sound of a bell ringing seemed to clang in the air. For a moment they all listened. Matheson had hung the bell the first day he was able to walk out of the house. He said if there was trouble at the trading post, everyone should come running.

Jessie swung onto her horse and held her hand down for Shelly to join her. She dropped him at the wagon without slowing down and he climbed up.

Shelly took the reins of the wagon Annie had ridden out in and headed at full speed toward the post while Patrick swung first Annie and then himself up. They were farther out by a mile than they’d ever been.

While Patrick bounced around on the bench trying to hold on to his seat and his wife, he tried to think of what might have gone wrong. The list was far too long to bother repeating to the others.

When they passed the chimney at Truman’s place and rounded the last bend on what they all called Lone Oak Road, Patrick made out several wagons pulled up to the trading post. Wagons often traveled in groups, but these wagons looked to be loaded with lumber.

“Look!” he shouted, hugging his wife. “The supplies are here.”

Truman was back. The real building could begin. Patrick almost felt like he could jump off and outrun the team traveling at full speed. Now the building of the town would really be under way.

Only, when they pulled up no one was celebrating or hugging. Patrick helped Annie down as they watched Truman slowly lift an old lady from the first wagon.

Truman walked, flanked by two young dark-haired men, toward the trading post. A tiny woman of about forty was talking to Karrisa in a different language and, to Patrick’s surprise, Truman’s wife seemed to understand.

“Put her in our room,” Karrisa said as Truman passed inside. “I’ll move our things out.”

“No,” Harmon Ely yelled from the porch. “Put her in my room. I’ll sleep in the store. Tired of climbing the stairs anyway and that top room right off the stairs is the warmest one.”

Patrick turned to say something to Annie, but she was no longer at his side.

He found her and Daisy a few minutes later in the kitchen helping boil water and getting towels ready to go upstairs. “What’s wrong?” he asked to Annie’s back.

But it was Karrisa who answered in her shy voice, “The old woman saved Truman’s life but was hurt. They were attacked on the road. Her daughter says she’s been coughing up blood for a while.”

Matheson stormed into the kitchen. “Got the warm towels ready and a bottle of whiskey?” The captain in Matheson was taking charge. “Jessie, can you watch the kids?”

The girl who’d just stepped through the back door nodded as he continued, “We’ll need blankets. Ely is staying with the store and there is not room for all of us in the tiny room. Daisy and Annie, can you handle the doctoring? Karrisa, I want you to keep talking to her since you know Italian. It may help her calm. Try to get a little whiskey down her. It might help with the pain.”

All three women nodded.

“I don’t know if it will help,” Matheson added, “but once when I saw a man kicked by a horse, the doc wrapped his chest with strips of cotton soaked in starch. The starch made the bandage harden as the cotton dried. If we can keep her breathing shallow it might stop any more damage inside her chest.”

When they hurried to follow orders, Patrick asked, “What can I do to help?”

“Get the wagons in the barn and the mules in the corral. Karrisa said one of the drivers speaks English so he’ll help. The others will probably pitch in.” Matheson glanced at the pot of stew. “Truman said they haven’t eaten since yesterday.” He looked from Shelly to Patrick. “Looks like we’ll have to man the kitchen until the women have her resting easy.”

Patrick and Shelly must have looked horrified at the thought of cooking because Daisy interrupted her husband. “After you take care of the wagons, wash your hands and start slicing bread and ham. That and the soup should feed folks.”

As the women hurried away, the captain looked at the McAllens. “Can either one of you cook?”

Both shook their heads.

“We’ve got four older sisters still at home. Why would we be needed in the kitchen?” Patrick didn’t want to appear a fool, so he added, “But I’m sure I’m a better cook than Shelly.”

Since Shelly didn’t comment, the claim stood.

“How about you, Captain, can you cook?”

“I’ve eaten in the mess hall all my life. All I’ve ever done is warm a can of beans over a campfire.”

Patrick smiled. “That makes you the head cook. If the women aren’t down in an hour we have bread, ham, and warmed beans.”

Matheson headed for the door. “Great. We have a plan. As soon as Truman comes down I’ll find out if there is a chance the outlaws may be following them.”

“And if they are?” Patrick asked.

“Then we prepare to fight.”