Gather The Children (Chronicles of the Maca Book 2) (6 page)

“Up ye go, laddie.” MacDonald jerked his thumb towards Martin and went to collect from Andrew, a satisfied grin on his face.

Lorenz rolled his cigarette and looked at Martin. “Y'all want some?” he offered. He was bored with the silence and the jolting of the wagon was sure to do damage to his backside.

“Naw, thanks, but I don't smoke or chew. Both cost too much money.”

“That's a fact,” muttered Lorenz, glad of the refusal. He didn't know when he would get more. Red had kept him supplied in Carson City. 'Course Rity didn't know nothing about it. “How long's this trip gonna take?”

“We're getting a late start so it'll be four nights on the trail, then close to another half-a-day before we reach your place.”

“Ain't my place,” protested Lorenz.

“Sure it is, now. Uncle Mac ain't got any sons, just Mina, and in Texas, girls can't own land.” To Martin, this fact was irrefutable; therefore, Lorenz would inherit.

“How much land?” asked Lorenz.

“Papa and Uncle Mac each own a couple of thousand acres and all around us is more land and wild cattle that nobody owns. We use the land and brand all the cattle we can catch.”

“Why bother if prices are so bad?” Lorenz began to see why MacDonald wanted a hand.

“Because the prices are going to get better,” replied Martin. “We got a contract with the U.S. Cavalry for another three hundred head this fall and again come spring. That's six hundred dollars split two ways each trip, but prices are better up North.” His voice became excited. “Do y'all know what they get for each head up there?”

“Nope.” He took a deep drag on the cigarette, sure that Martin was about to tell him.

“Thirty dollars a head, that's vat!” In his excitement, Martin lapsed into the accent of his father. “Do y'all know vhat that comes to?”

Lorenz shook his head no while Martin explained.

Like most men, Martin would plod through life, secure in his own lot, thanking God for his blessings and asking help from above when needed. This, however, was his idea, one of the few original ideas that he would ever conceive. He had gone over and over the details in his mind and now there was an opportunity to execute it. From this one thought would come riches and security for him and for his yet to be conceived children. When he first mentioned it to his father and MacDonald, Rolfe started to laugh, but the interest on MacDonald's face stilled the mirth. After much discussion the two older men had agreed.

Martin warmed to his subject and the chance to explain it again. “Say we each drive three hundred, maybe five hundred head north. That's nine, fifteen thousand for each family. It's more money than this whole county has seen in four years. Even with paying the men and other expenses, it will leave seven or ten thousand each. Every year we can drive another herd. Prices are sure to get better and the herds bigger, if we cull them right and hire the right men to drive them.”

“Who the hell ever heard of driving cattle that far?” Lorenz was skeptical.

Martin's voice was stubborn as he said, “Papa used to drive herds to New Orleans before the war, and he was paid good money. That was after trapping went to hell and Uncle Mac was scouting for the 2
^nd
Dragoons. He helped on the first drive though.”

“Ah still don't see how y'all will get through Injun country. Where's the water and feed y'all need for that many cows?”

“Papa and Uncle Mac know how to get through,” Martin replied. “Papa still goes to see Old Chisholm on the Cherokee Reservation.”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

“Chisholm is still a trader in the Cherokee lands. Papa and Uncle Mac know him from their fur trapping days. His wagons made trails carrying the freight in for the Indians. We can drive a herd through Cherokee territory and not worry about being attacked. There's probably some Jay Hawkers left from the war, but we'll get enough men for any fighting. We just need extra horses and plenty of grub. Cattle, even longhorns, trail good. We can sell the extra horses there too, just like we do in Arles. They're just wild mustangs that we rough break for herding.”

“Yeah, but iffen y'all can drive cattle, others will too. Then who buys that many beeves?”

“Meat packers or brokers back east, that's who. There's lots of people pouring into this country, thousands every year! The North needs our beef.” Martin had heard these arguments before and he had an answer for everyone.

Lorenz considered the possibilities and the reasons. “Why so many people coming here?”

“Because things in the old country are bad. It's much better here. Here a man can get land and try to get rich.”

“Why not do that where they are?” Things weren't really that great in Texas as far as Lorenz could see. People were starving, empty houses dotted the landscape, the Comanche were acting like they owned the western part of the state, and the men coming home from the war were gaunt, tattered clad skeletons that rode mules and horses equally ill fed, if they had horses or mules.

Martin looked at Lorenz in wonderment. “In the old country,” he said firmly, “men like us can't get rich. Some places, we can't even get schooling. Men are expected to do what their papas did, and they sure can't vote. All the land is owned by the rich, and that's who y'all work for. Y'all can't even worship God like y'all want, and if y'all catch so much as a rabbit for food they hang y'all.”

Lorenz had never heard such things. Maybe other places were different. He didn't know. It was safer to go back to talking about selling beef and horses. “What do y'all mean about sellin' horses? Ah thought y'all wuz trailin' beef.”

“We needed the extra horses for the trail. One horse gets tired if y'all use it all the time. So we each have an extra horse and then sell it. That's how I got the money for the shirt. Papa gave it to me.”

“Why wouldn't he? Sounds like y'all earned it.”

“That's how it is in families. It ain't your money until y'all are twenty-one, the legal age.” A quick glance was enough to see disbelief written on Lorenz's face and Martin elaborated. “After y'all turn twenty-one, anything y'all earn is all yours. Papa is right good about money though. He lets me keep anything Uncle Mac or Uncle Kap pay me for haying or helping. It ain't much, but it makes a difference. Papa left home when he was sixteen because his papa beat him and always kept the money from Papa's job. Papa figured he was better off on his own.”

“Damn right,” agreed Lorenz. “Does yore pa beat on y'all?”

“Only when I needed it.” Martin threw a quick smile over the reins. “It seems a boy can always get into trouble. He only laid me out once, and it was my own fault. I got into the last of his whiskey and what I didn't drink I broke when I fell down.”

Lorenz gave a half-way chuckle, but he was wondering how Martin could be so free of any hatred towards his sire. “Was it worth it?” he asked.

“Naw, whiskey don't taste half as good as beer or wine.”

There was another matter that didn't fit in with life as Lorenz knew it. “How come y'all got all that booze if y'll are Christian?”

“Huh, y'all must have been listening to some Baptist or Methodist preacher. Jews drink wine, and Jesus was a Jew. He made wine. Not that booze has anything to do with salvation.” Martin liked being the knowledgeable one.

Lorenz tried sorting the words out. The words Martin used had no meaning to him; yet, Martin's voice and words had a familiarity to them like some long ago echo of family conversations and word patterns that moved in his head and visited his dreams: Voices from far away calling him home to safety and sanity. He didn't want Martin to stop talking. He wasn't sure what salvation meant either. Rity had said it meant to be saved, but right now the only thing he needed saved from was MacDonald. Rolfe and MacDonald were still on either side of the wagon. Sometimes one would go to point and one to drag, but never far enough away for Lorenz to bound over the side and loosen Dandy for a quick exit.

“I don't know who I was listening to,” said Lorenz, unaware that he was picking up the speech of Martin, “but them camp meeting ladies sure didn't hold with drinking. And the preacher man doing all the shouting was sure agin it.”

“Ja,” agreed Martin, “and he was probably ignorant too. Them kind don't have any education. They can't read much English, let alone Greek or Hebrew.” Martin slapped the reins over the backs of the horse in disgust.

Lorenz listened in amazement at the words. He didn't realize that Martin was iterating the standard Lutheran argument against any uneducated preacher. “What's reading got to do with it?” he asked.

“Y'all can't preach the word of God if y'all can't read it.”

Lorenz was sure that that didn't keep any number of people from preaching, but at least this opened a new line of thought as Martin was becoming irate about something. It would be best to stick to subjects where Martin wasn't watching and alert.

“Can y'all read all those languages,” asked Lorenz.

Martin relaxed and smiled. “Well, not Greek or Hebrew, but I ain't a Pastor. I can read and write Deutsch and English though, and your Uncle Kap is teaching James Latin. In a few years, he'll be learning Greek.”

Lorenz was awed. “Why Dutch in this country?”

“Not Dutch, Deutsch. It's pronounced German in English.”

Then why didn't he say German in the first place, Lorenz wondered. “Can y'all cipher too?”

“Sure, pretty good at numbers. Least ways, I'm good enough so nobody's going to cheat me.” Martin wasn't bragging. He was just stating a fact.

“Where'd y'all go to school?”

“Right in Schmidt's Corner. Your uncle, he was the teacher, and he taught everybody.”

There was the reference to his uncle again. He sure as hell couldn't remember him. Lorenz stayed on the subject. “Who's everybody?”

“My sister, Olga, some of Tillman's relatives, and Tillman's oldest girl. The Tillman's relatives have moved out. They didn't have anything to eat after the men joined the Rebs. Now Young James is his only student. Tillman won't send his girls if he can't pay. Y'all ever been to school, Lorenz?”

“Naw, never no time.” He wondered what Martin would say if he told him about Comancheros, or Rity singing in saloons. Probably best not to. Aloud he said, “Rity taught me some ciphering. Ah didn't do much learning to read though.”

“I'll bet Uncle Mac and Tante Anna teach y'all.”

“Mama reads and writes?” burst out of Lorenz's mouth.

“Ja, sure, the same as me: Deutsch and English.”

Lorenz pondered the information. Most men he'd known couldn't much more than sign their name. What the hell was a woman doing reading and writing? Of course, Rity did both, but that didn't count. There wasn't much of a woman about Rity except her figure and clothes. “What does Tante mean?” he asked.

“In English it means Aunt. As much as she helped to raise us after Mama died, it seemed silly to call her Mrs. MacDonald.”

“Is yore sister older or younger than y'all?”

“Older, by a year.”

“Is she pretty?”

Martin hooted. “She's okay, I guess. She's sister. Besides, she's sweet on Tom Jackson.”

Lorenz didn't know who Jackson was and didn't care. MacDonald and Rolfe were hanging too close to the wagon. He might as well jaw some more.

Young James had tired of sitting in the back and was now hanging over the boards waiting for a chance to break in on their conversation. He hated the interloper on his seat. The light breeze kept swirling the dust up and around. If he was up high, he wouldn't have to breathe any dust. He was tired of watching clouds half-form and dissolve in the blue sky. How he longed to be up there beside Martin.

“Is your sister pretty,” asked Martin.

“Ah reckon. Some say so. She's too tall for most men,” Lorenz added.

“How tall is she?”

“Ah reckon about six foot.”

Martin whistled and looked at Lorenz. “I didn't think any woman would be taller than Tante Anna.” He was impressed. “Is she married?”

“Naw, she won't even look at a man. She beat the hell out of one fellow that tried to kiss her.”

Young James gasped. “Your Mama will wash your mouth out with soap if you talk like that,” he declared.

“Sez who?”

Martin laughed. “Young James should know. She's washed out his mouth enough times.”

Lorenz raised his eyebrows. The notion of anyone washing out his mouth went against the grain.

James would not retreat. “She has not! Only twice, and besides, it was your fault, Martin.”

“Young James, shut up!” Martin was not the older for nothing. “We are talking.” He turned his attention Lorenz. “Did y'all live in Carson City for long?”

“Only a few months.”

“I've heard it's a real big place, plenty of businesses, and lots of people pouring in. Did y'all ever go into the mines?”

“Naw. Red knew some of the owners, but he wasn't about much during the day.”

“Is that the fellow that knows y'all didn't kill his uncle?”

“Yeah.”

“What's he do for a living?”

Lorenz hesitated before answering and then decided it wasn't worth lying about. “He owns two cathouses.”

Young James covered his ears at this sinfulness and then had to scramble to regain his balance as the wagon bounced over a rock. Martin turned to look at Lorenz, his blue eyes wide with interest.

Honest? Did y'all go in there?”

Lorenz decided to lie. Rity's arrival and retrieval of his one time visit to the whores was too shameful for the recounting. “Naw, ah didn't. Ah didn't have no money.”

“Are they fancy places?”

“Just the one is all gussied up for the mine owners. The other's for the miners and it's just a long shack.”

“I thought y'all weren't inside.”

“Ah wasn't,” Lorenz protested. “Ah just walked by the outside.”

“I thought the O'Neals were big planters down in south Texas,” Martin prodded.

“The old man is, but Red didn't much fancy fighting in a war that the South was going to lose.”

Martin was dubious. “Are y'all sure he just didn't want to be shot at?” He had a low opinion of men that sold women.

“Hell, no! He's a damn good fighter and one of the best shots around. He just don't care shit for fighting in wars.”

“Uh, uh, Lorenz, y'all keep talking like that and I'm going to tell,” sang Young James.