Earthbound: Science Fiction in the Old West (Chronicles of the Maca Book 1) (23 page)

Margareatha hurried out of the telegraph office, praying that the telegram would reach Red in time. Lorenz had developed a fever one week ago. Her mind was in a complete turmoil. There had to be a solution for this situation.

The doctor kept going, “hmm,” when draining pus from the wound. Surely those people that Red's shipments went to had something to help. She realized that should Red even get the telegram, it would take weeks before anything arrived via the stagecoach from San Francisco, and then only if Red could get it from Carson City to San Francisco. So far Lorenz's system was trying to fight off the infection and the fever. His appetite was huge, as though the food would rebuild the body tissue that was damaged. Her ability to keep the doctor from realizing that Lorenz had two hearts was severely tested each time. Dr Shelly examined Lorenz. He would look puzzled afterward as though he had forgotten something. To make matters worse, her income had fallen to nothing and her cash reserves were rapidly disappearing into Lorenz's stomach. There were three other things she was good at. One was playing poker, as her mind gave her an edge, accounting, and singing. She knew no one in this town would hire her for the first two and if they did, it would be long hours away from Lorenz.

She entered her home and found Josephina coming from the bedroom with an empty bowl.

“I think that's the last of the soup.” Josephina spoke in Spanish and Margareatha responded in kind. Her accent was bad, but her mind had grasped the meanings.

“I'll make some more. Thank you, here's the dime I promised you. Were there any problems?”

“No, Senorita Lawrence, he really doesn't need anyone here except to keep him in bed and that is getting hard to do.” She pocketed the money and left.

Margareatha walked into the bedroom and smiled at Lorenz. “Are you feeling better?”

“No, it still hurts like, uh, heck.” He figured there was no use using hell. It would just throw Rity into a conniption fit and a tirade of words about Mama. What good did it do to talk about Mama? No way was he going to admit that he liked it or that secretly he believed she was alive. All it did was make the ache worse.

Margareatha laid her hand on his forehead. 'Damn,' she thought in her mind, aloud she said, “I'm afraid your fever is back. Did you want some of that paregoric to make you sleep?”

“Hel—uh, no. All that does is make me stop shitting.”

“Lorenz, there are other ways of saying that.” How many times had she told him?

“I'll sleep without it.”

She walked over to the wall and opened her trunk, sorted through the finery she hadn't worn in six months, and pulled out a light green taffeta. It was low cut at the bodice and the shoulder had cap-like sleeves. The matching pair of gloves and the shoes were in the bottom. Then she pulled out a green dress of linen and a multitude of underskirts. She held up each item to eye them critically. Perhaps the dress would be better if brown, but Margareatha had nothing so subdued. The skirts and blouses for the bakery were too plain. There was one thing that she could do that wouldn't take her away from Lorenz for hours. If she had to use her mind to get the job, she would. It was barely four in the afternoon. She could bring in what wood they would need and clean her hands and nails before heading to the Orpheum. Her mouth was set in a straight line. They needed money; money for the doctor, for the drugs that were useless, for food, and if Lorenz became strong enough, money for the stagecoach. Respectability was a dream.
Mama, I'm sorry
, ran through her mind.

* * *

Branson McGuire looked up from his conversation with the bartender as the red-head with the fancy hat, green linen dress, and a matching parasol walked into his establishment. His blue eyes lit with interest. Where did she come from? The only tall red-headed woman he knew about ran the bakery and he hadn't heard of any new arrivals. This one was a high-toned saloon gal. She walked toward him as though she knew he was the owner or a man of importance.

“Mr. McGuire, my name is Miss Lawrence and I would like to speak with you.” Her eyes were a strange copper color with gold circles around the pupils and she looked straight at him. To McGuire, the surprise was that she looked straight down at him for she stood about three inches taller.

Branson picked up his glass and twirled the whiskey around. “Well, now Miss Lawrence, it happens I'm a busy man, but if you like we can have a drink now and you can come back this evening to entertain the men. I've got a curtained room upstairs where a couple can retire.” He winked at her.

“You are mistaken, Mr. McGuire. That is not my profession.” Her voice was clear and well-modulated. The voice remained steady, no tremor, and no blush highlighted her cheeks. “I intend to return, but as a singer. The men here are hungry for that type of entertainment. There hasn't been an acting troupe through here since the conflict began.”

Margareatha chose her words carefully. You never knew who was adamantly for the Union or for the South. Most of the people in Arizona Territory had quit caring. All they wanted was troops from either side to ride out against the Apache or whatever tribe stole their horses and cattle.

McGuire considered. What she said was true. The war had pulled men out of the West. Some were filtering back in, but they were beaten or broke. Those from California, Nevada, and New Mexico Territory might have funds, but they found little reason to linger in Tucson. In time, this woman should become more accommodating. A few drinks usually accomplished that. Women couldn't hold their liquor.

“What types of songs do you sing?”

“I sing everything from folksongs like Barbarie Allen to the latest Steven Foster songs like
None Shall Weep a Tear for Me
, and, of course, the popular songs from plays on the riverboats.”

McGuire looked at her more closely. So that's where she came from, but no women had arrived recently. Then he realized that this was the bakery woman. She had transformed herself from a drudge into a fashionably dressed saloon gal.

Margareatha smiled. “Men will be happy to throw money my way and buy booze while I'm singing.”

“Are you willing to sit with them afterward and let them buy you a drink?”

“No, I wouldn't, but perhaps during a break if they buy what I like to drink.”

“And that would be what, Miss Lawrence?”

“That would be brandy.”

A slow smile crept onto his face. That was a more expensive drink. “What time would you be here?”

“When is your establishment the most crowded?”

“It's usually more crowded about seven thirty to eight thirty. After that, it's the men who like to drink or gamble and they've been damn few lately.”

“Perhaps by my second evening that will change, Mr. McGuire. I suggest you schedule me for two nights a week. Does that sound reasonable?”

“What about three?”

“Do the people here have that kind of money?”

“They will if they have a reason.”

“What evenings do you suggest?”

“I'd say Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays are the best. Sunday evenings too many souls are praying for God to forgive them for their sins. It's the same on Wednesday evenings.”

Margareatha put out her gloved hand in the lady-approved manner. “In that case, Mr. McGuire, you can expect me tomorrow evening at seven thirty. Is there a back entryway so that I can make my entrance a bit more dramatic?”

“Yes, there's even a place to wait while I have someone introduce you. I'll get the word out. If my sales go up, you can sing as long as you want.”

“Sing
Gentle Annie
,” a man yelled.

“No,
Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming
,” yelled another, “only this time make it real sad like.”

Margareatha complied and slowed the tempo. She had been singing at McGuire's for about six weeks. The money was good and men stupidly threw coins, fractional currency (if they had it), gold lumps, or silver into the hat she had placed on a stool beside her. The men had gone wild over her. She didn't even need to use her mind to loosen the silver in their pockets. McGuire vacillated between hearty and leering, and becoming more ruffled with each failed encounter. She was seriously thinking of changing saloons or taking Lorenz and heading to Carson City without an answer from Red. The journey would be brutal on someone recovering from such a severe wound.

Lorenz had lost at least twenty pounds off his skinny frame and remained weak. He was finally able to get up and move a few steps. His food consumption was beyond belief. Somehow the food was repairing the internal damage, and he was growing. His system had fought off the infection. Dr. Shelly had been both pleased and baffled, but took full credit for the outcome. He too had made overtures since she began at the saloon.

Margareatha had nothing but contempt for them and for most men. Men looked at her and looked hurriedly away when with their wives. Without their wives they almost drooled, but still shied away from speaking in public. She was no longer respectable and she scorned them all; except when she was singing.

Her full, clear soprano would throb and ache with love or yearning depending on the lyrics. When someone requested songs like
Oh! Susanna
she smiled and made men laugh. If she took a break during the course of an evening, someone always bought her a brandy. A few would buy the entire bottle in the hopes of enticing her to their room or the alcove above. McGuire was delighted. The extra patrons coming to hear her and the purchase of brandy kept him at bay.

Margareatha finished for the evening and slung her long cape around the fancy off-shoulder gown. The cowl she would pull upward when outside. It fooled no one, but the ladies of worth could not accuse her of walking the streets in inappropriate clothing.

McGuire met her in the short hall leading to the back door.

“Stay awhile, Miss Lawrence. I've ordered a special bottle of brandy to celebrate all the business you've brought my way.”

“Thank you, Mr. McGuire, but I must return home to check on my brother.”

He grabbed her right arm under the cape. His huge hand clamped down in a bruising hold.

“Not this evening, Miss Lawrence, it's time we talked. It won't do any good to scream. My men will create a disturbance and they have orders to stop anyone foolish enough to investigate.”

Anger, red and raw surged through her, and McGuire felt the pressure of a derringer against his belly.

“You will release me now. I've shot this before if you're stupid enough to think I haven't.” With her mind she drove his hand from her arm and made him take a step backward. A puzzled look came over his face, but Margareatha side-stepped him and opened the door.

“Goodnight, Mr. McGuire. I shan't return.” She banged the door closed. Men be damned. Answer or no answer, she was buying the tickets at the Butterfield Stagecoach office tomorrow. The stagecoach would take them to San Francisco. From there they would catch a local stage to Carson City.

“Y'all going to let me have one of those women?” Lorenz's horse was beside Red O'Neal's after a morning of riding. They were on the way to the Sporting Palace, the fancy whorehouse Red owned. Red had given Lorenz a grey horse called Dandy when Lorenz had told about killing one of the Comanchero men that was trying to rape him. Lorenz couldn't figure out why, but the speculative look in Red's eyes alerted him. This man was expecting something, but what?

Lorenz figured it was because it meant he would grow up to be a gunman and rider like that Collins fellow working for Red. Red, however, was trying to determine if Lorenz's Justine mind abilities were maturing early.

Red looked at the boy. At thirteen, he was still incredibly slender and stood about five feet seven or eight. “We'll see how you do talking with the ladies today. Then maybe in a month or so I might permit it.”

They tied their horses at the front.

“I need to meet with Madame Clarisse. You're allowed into the parlor, but no farther and no drinking. Remember these whores are fairly high-class. They don't want to hear a bunch of cussing or see you spitting or hawking anything.”

Lorenz looked at Red. He seemed to be serious. “Ah thought all whores were nothing but tramps.”

They stepped to the front door.

“No, these have a certain amount of education and expectations. That's why they are here instead of the other place.”

“I thought it wuz 'cause they're prettier.” Lorenz refused to speak like Rity wanted. She was always bossing him around.

Red grinned as he knocked at the door. “They are prettier, but that's because my customers want young and pretty.”

A dark skinned maid opened the door.

“Why Massa Red, come in. Y'all want some coffee and cream?” She looked surprised at seeing Lorenz. He was tall enough to be a man, but anyone could see he was still a boy.

“Callie, you are going to have to quit calling me that. I pay you wages.” Red smiled. “And instead of cream, put a shot of whiskey in the coffee. Where's Clarisse?”

“She's in what she calls her office, suh.” Callie pointed towards the kitchen. “Do y'all want me to give this,” she started to say child, but changed her mind, “young'un anything?”

Lorenz smiled. “How about the same as Red's?”

“No, give him a cup of coffee with cream. Anyone else up?”

“Some of the girls have wandered down, suh.”

“Good, they can keep him company.”

“Ah don't want any cream. That's fer babies.”

“And don't break the cup when Callie brings it.” Red guided him into the parlor furnished in gold, blue, and white upholstered chairs with small dark tables beside them, and a deep, white velvet sofa, a fancy table by the door, gold brocade drapes to keep gawkers away, and a maroon carpet. A maple stair wound up to the second floor. Lorenz was awed. Never had he been in a room so richly furnished. Rity was buying fancier things as she could afford them, but most were made by local tradesmen.

Two sleepy-eyed young women stood the moment they entered and curtsied.

“Mr. O'Neal, can we be of service?” the blonde cooed.

“Service, Daisy? What an odd way to put it.” The other woman was a brunette, and she smiled at Red. “You name it, Mr. O'Neal, and I can match it.” Her brown eyes sparkled at the thought.

“Why, thank you, ladies, but that will need to wait until evening. I've brought my young friend, Lorenz, and if you will, ahem, keep him entertained while I speak with Clarisse, I'll appreciate it. By entertained, I do not mean initiating him into the ways of manhood. Just sing songs or talk.”

Red turned and walked to the back.

Lorenz was red-faced. He had never been around such pretty girls. Rity didn't count. She was his sister. He felt the swelling between his legs and hoped they didn't notice.

Both young women hooked one arm around one of his and led him to one of the over-sized upholstered chairs. “Haven't you been with a woman, honey?”

Red flared up Lorenz's cheeks. “Uh, no.” He tried to think of something to say that wouldn't sound stupid.

Daisy, the blonde, half-pushed him into the chair and plopped down into his lap. She put her arms around him. “There, doesn't that feel nice?”

Lorenz's mouth opened and he pulled in a breath of air. “Yes, 'um.”

Both giggled, and Daisy brought his hand up to her breast. As though following some deep rooted instinct, Lorenz began to squeeze. That felt good. He liked it.

The foyer door banged open and red-headed fury came barreling into the room.

“Get away from him you two bit floozies!”

Before either could move, Margareatha grabbed Daisy by the hair and pulled her off Lorenz. She used her parasol to thump the other in the chest. Both were screaming.

“Just what do you think you are doing? Mama would skin us both alive if she saw you here.”

She grabbed Lorenz's arm and pulled him upright.

Clarisse came running into the room with Red following her. “You have no right to disturb my young ladies in this manner.”

Margareatha took her parasol and drove it into the Madam's midsection.

“Wait a minute, Rita,” Red began when Margareatha's parasol caught him in the midsection. He didn't join Clarisse on the floor, but he grabbed his stomach.

Margareatha gripped Lorenz's shoulder and propelled him out of the room, through the foyer, and out the front door. She was using the parasol to bash him whenever there was room enough or Lorenz tried to twist away.

“Not out here!” he yelled at her as they stepped onto the street.

Red appeared at the door. “Miss Lawrence, if…”

“You may take care of his horse. I'll see you later,” she raged back and continued to pull Lorenz down the street toward her house using her parasol whenever she could get in a good whack.

Inside her house she fought him into his room and used his belt on him. She failed to notice that his eyes had turned to ice and no sound came from his lips.

Lorenz knew he had endured worse beatings. He'd sworn to kill the man who had administered them and any man that tried to do that to him again. But this wasn't a man. This was Rity, his sister. He couldn't kill her, but she'd never have the chance to do this again. He gritted his teeth. He knew he would leave here. In a couple of years he would be big enough and strong enough that nobody could stop him. First he would kill Zale and then go find Mama. All he had to do was survive and he was damn good at surviving.

When Margareatha judged it punishment enough, she tossed the belt on his bed. “I expect to see you've written out your name and alphabet when I return. Mama would never have forgiven either of us if I left you there.” She banged the door on her way out, fearful that she might have gone too far.

Her mood was no better at her Poker Parlor. There were several tables downstairs, a small bar, and an upstairs with an office for doing all of Red's accounts. Placing numbers in a row soothed her agitation. When she looked up, she realized she worked through supper. She decided to ready herself for the evening and order something through her bartender.

Margareatha pinned the green plumes to her hair. The plumes swept down the left side of her head. Her dress was a dark green with a shoulder shawl. The bodice outlined every feature of her full upper figure. Doing the accounts had put her in a better mood. She left her office where she kept the accounts for Red's whorehouses, saloon, her own establishment, and Red's shipping business. She locked the door and placed the key into her beaded embroidered purse. That was slipped into a special pocket sewn on the side of her skirt. She could hear the scrape of chairs and men's laughter below. Parson was dealing already. No one knew if that was his name or whether it was the theology he spouted when too deep in his cups. It didn't matter as long as he stayed sober while dealing.

She lifted her head and saw Richards leaning against the left mahogany newel post. He straightened and smiled as she approached.

Margareatha nodded at him. She ignored him as she did most men. This one was tall, his build good but his shoulders slumped from long hours at the poker table. Bags were under his eyes from heavy drinking. His belly had a definite paunch.

He put his left arm out and grasped her waist to pull her into him.

“Miss Lawrence, you must have a drink with me, but first a kiss.”

Margareatha drove her knee up into his groin. A look of surprise and pain filled his face. His grasp loosened. Margareatha stepped back and drove her right fist into his soft belly. As he bent over, she grabbed his hair and tried to heave him down the stairs. Richards managed to grab the railing by the third step down and hauled himself upright.

“You bitch!” He started to double his fists when Margareatha's left caught him on the nose. She followed through with her right square on his chin. He slumped downward desperately hanging onto the railing.

By this time men were gathered at the bottom gawking upward. They had never seen a woman use her fists so effectively on a man. Margareatha gathered her skirts and stepped around Richards.

“Somebody throw him out. He's barred from here.” She descended with her head held high and took her seat at the head table.

“Morgan, you heard me. Throw him out and bring me a brandy.” She smiled at the men looking at her.

“Anyone ready for a game?”

Inside she was seething against all men: Red, Lorenz, and the apes who wanted to paw her and beat her into the ground. That evening she showed no mercy. Other evenings she might lose a game to throw a sop to the men playing against her. She stalked home still belittling men in her mind. It was a relief to walk into her house to peace and quiet. She checked Lorenz's bedroom to make sure he was asleep and found herself looking at a slightly rumpled empty bed.

She sank against the doorjamb whispering, “Mama, forgive me. What have I done?” He was gone. She knew it. A quick survey of the kitchen confirmed her suspicions: bread, beans, two empty lard cans, and a knife and spoon were gone.

Margareatha ran to The Sporting Palace and barged in on Red's conference with Clarisse.

“He's run off.” In mindspeak she shouted, 'We have to find him! Now!'

Red removed the cigarillo and looked up at her. “We can't do anything until morning. Did you check the livery stable?”

“No! I didn't need to. You have to go after him now!”

“Darling sister, I cannot see in the damn dark and neither can anyone else. Morning will be time enough, besides which way would he go?”

“He's gone to look for Mama.” She was screeching, not caring who she disturbed.

“How do you know?”

“Because that's what he wanted to do once this war ends.”

“There, you see. If I can't catch up to him, he might be at Wooden. I was planning on going to Texas anyway.” He used mindspeak to explain. 'My mother has sent a letter with information I can't ignore.' He didn't bother to tell her it involved a shipment of Confederate gold.

“If he's in Wooden, I'll find him. Now if you'll excuse me, I have certain business concerns that must be resolved.”