Paxton and the Lone Star (11 page)

“Ma'am? Miss?” the old man stuttered. “Ah tried to warn you.”

A rising scream of anguish was his only answer. Worried, the driver clucked to the team and applied the whip. He wanted to be shucked of his load and the crazy woman as quick as quick was. Being scared of a dead man was one thing, he didn't blame her for that, but this durn girl was carryin' on like she was kin.

Chapter VII

Carl Michaelson had always wanted a son, a son his wife had been unable to produce. Carl Michaelson loved his wife in the ways an upright man is taught to love his wife, by providing for her and caring for her. At one time he had loved her passionately, too, but that was a love that somehow faded through the years. He had never known, nor had he bothered to ask himself, why. Carl Michaelson would have said, if asked, that he loved his eldest daughter. Perhaps he did, because he gave his life for her, in a manner of speaking. No man who knew Carl would have said, either to his face or behind his back, that it was his own honor, not Lottie's, that he was defending. The thought occurred to some, but it was a thought best kept secret even to those who thought it. Carl Michaelson had been heard to say that he loved his youngest daughter, that she was as nearly a son as a daughter could be. He did not realize that he had unintentionally shaped Elizabeth's personality, nor that she, in return, had spent most of her life trying to be a son as well as a daughter. Later, when her body changed, he found that in spite of himself he loved her in a different, forbidden way that, no matter how hard he tried to deny it, plagued him during his sleeping and waking hours alike. The love drove him to the brink of madness, and to the Lord Jesus Christ and His Father, the Almighty God of the Universe, in whom lay salvation and peace. This Lord and this God, whom he had loved, through a fear he failed to recognize, were the twin forces that drove his restless feet westward. There, he dimly perceived, he would find rest through travail and an unending struggle for survival.

Now Carl Michaelson lay dead in a pine box. He was dressed in a black suit and his hands were folded across his stomach. The mud and blood had been cleansed from his face, and a large white bandage hid the gaping hole in his head. He did not look particularly at peace, only pale and tired and weary beyond belief, ready, almost, to descend into the earth from whence he had come.

At nine o'clock on the morning of Saturday, October 11, 1834, the last of the band of settlers filed past and gazed mournfully down on the remains. Two minutes later, Alton Babcock, owner and proprietor of Babcock's Funeral Parlor, drove into place the four nails that held the lid, and led the way through the double doors to the waiting hearse. A half hour later, the assembly gathered around an open grave in the Natchez cemetery where the rising waters of the Mississippi would not exhume Carl and add further humiliation to his untimely demise.

The Reverend Buckland Kania read all the necessary words from the Bible, then improvished a eulogy. He had known Carl Michaelson only during the trip from Pennsylvania and had soon discovered that the farmer's religion involved a strict, intensely private relationship with God, one that felt little need for the brotherhood of a religious community. But he sought words of comfort for the man's family.

The balm of words became a drone, a buzz. Hester sat in a chair provided for her and wept softly. Lottie, her eyes puffy and her cheeks pale, stood slightly bowed forward, much like a tree in a windstorm. Elizabeth stood at her mother's side and stared at the pine box as if her gaze could penetrate the wood and see within it the man she had called Father.

Their friends were close at hand. Joan Campbell had not left Hester's side since the arrival of the horrible news. Scott Campbell and his sons had carried the body to the funeral parlor in Natchez and had made all the arrangements. Pregnant Mildred Thatche sniffed back tears. Her husband Kevin, suddenly older than his sixteen years, held her hand and tried not to show that he was more concerned for the life blossoming within his wife than he was for a dead man in a wooden box. Heads prayerfully bowed, the Matlans stood with Jack Kemper, whose wife, Helen, glared reproachfully at Lottie and Elizabeth. Lips pursed, her head slowly wagging from side to side, she was an austere figure who, because no one else had had the temerity to do so, had taken upon herself the task of passing judgment on those who were to blame for a righteous man's death. Mila Kania and Thaddeus Jones stood apart at the rear.

He is dead, and that is that.
No matter how hard she tried, Elizabeth could not see through the layer of wood that separated her from her father.

He is dead, but if he had a son, his killing would not go unavenged.
The pine was transparent compared to that impenetrable though invisible barrier between death and life.

He is dead. The last moment I spent with him his arms were around me and his hands held me. I hated and feared him then, and was ashamed for him. I swore my own father would never touch me again.
But transparency or opacity had nothing to do with the dead and those they left behind. Memory existed outside those physical attributes, and the good memories were as easily recalled as the bad.
We labored together in the garden and in the fields. His praise lightened my heart with pride. If he was sometimes weak and overbearing, he was often noble and strong and tender. Oh, God, please let me remember him as he, and You, would want me to remember him.

“Lord, Heavenly King, Almighty and Triumphant God! As You taught us to live in Your likeness, teach us to face the loss of our brother, friend, loving husband, and beloved parent in the hope of rising again, reunited at the last judgment in Thy merciful sight and gentle grace. In Your name, Who discerns all and loves all. Amen.”

Buckland Kania lowered his hands, bent down and took a fistful of dirt, the red dirt that was so foreign-looking, so different from the dark brown Pennsylvania soil they all knew, and sprinkled it onto the coffin. The small assemblage responded, “Amen,” as one, and brought closer together by their loss, filed by the grave and repeated the final gesture.

“I told him. I told him, I told him, I told him,” Hester chanted, and suddenly leaned over and vomited.

Joan Campbell and Lottie rushed to support her. The men backed away and, embarrassed, averted their eyes.

“You see how it is,” Thaddeus Jones said, striding forward and standing at one end of the grave. His eyes were bloodshot, accentuated by the bold contrast of his ebony skin. One hand rested on the pistol he wore in his belt. “Death ain't never pretty, especially when it comes like this. You'll probably see more of it before you reach San Antone. A lot depends on if we meet the Comanche or not, but even more depends on how much common sense—”

“Mr. Jones!” Reverend Kania blurted. “This is hardly the time or place.”

“Have you no regard for common decency, man?” an incensed Nels Matlan added.

Jones's eyes lingered on Kania's, then shifted to Matlan's, and finally dropped to the wooden box sprinkled with red dirt. “As much as any of you,” he finally said. His voice was deep and sad, but forceful. As he spoke, he looked at each of the settlers in turn. “Maybe more. Maybe, too, this is the only time what I say will sink in deep. I told you we weren't out for no Sunday stroll, but you wouldn't believe me. Now you know what I meant. We're on the fringe of the law here—” He waved one arm to indicate the emptiness across the Mississippi. “—and it'll get worse the farther we go. Now, I'm paid to see you to San Antone, which is a long way off through some mean and tryin' country. Whether we get there kickin' or die crow bait along the way is a matter of me doin' my job right and you listenin' to what I say. Just so you'll know, if trouble comes unbidden, Injun or otherwise, I'll stand in front of you and be the first to meet it. But if any other man of you wants to make trouble on his own …” He paused, and the hand that had pointed west now pointed to the remains of Carl Michaelson. “… he meets it best he can, for it's the women and children I'll worry about.”

“I think that that will be enough,” Elizabeth broke in, not bothering to hide her anger. “I'm sure we are all deeply touched by your concern, such as it is.” Wheeling, she took her mother's arm and, with Lottie, led her away from the open grave and toward the waiting carriages.

“I guess you can start now,” Jones said to Babcock's helpers. “You can tell Babcock I want to see that stone Miz Michaelson paid for when I come back through, too.”

The drift of the settlers toward the carriages speeded up as the first shovelful of dirt thudded hollowly on the coffin lid. Mackenzie and Dennis Campbell, their red hair bright in the sun, hurried to catch up with the Michaelsons. “If you or your ma needs anything. Lottie,” Mackenzie said, speaking for them both, “you just—”

“We don't.” Elizabeth snapped, then immediately regretting her tone added, “I'm sorry, Mackenzie. You and Dennis and your father have done more than enough. We're just a little … just upset, right now.”

Both young men nodded in reply and rejoined their mother and father for the mile-long trip back to camp. The day was hot and terribly muggy after the previous night's downpour. The sky, clear and blue, contradicted the dark mood of the settlers. Each family went its own way when they arrived in camp, the men to tend stock and the women to prepare the noon meal. The small children, Tommy and Ruthie and Dianne, were herded out of earshot so that their laughter, as they played, wouldn't disturb Hester and her girls.

At the Michaelson wagon, Hester lay limply while Elizabeth changed into her work clothes and got the fire going under the coffee pot. Lottie set the small table Kevin Thatche had fixed for them that morning.

“Ladies.”

Startled, all three looked up to see Thaddeus Jones. Elizabeth added a final stick to the fire, rose and stood between him and her mother. “Ah, how nice,” she said, bitterly sarcastic. “It's Mr. Jones.” Hands on hips, she leaned across the fire. “Why don't you just leave us alone. You've said enough for one day.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Jones, looking embarrassed, removed his hat but stood his ground. “I'm sorry about that, miss, and about your pa, too, but what I said had to be said. Coffee smells right drinksome.”

“It's not hot yet, but help yourself.”

“Thank you.” Uncharacteristically awkward, Jones took a cup from the end of the rod that held the pot over the fire, tipped some coffee into it, and sat back on his heels. “I talked to the captain.”

“The captain?” Elizabeth asked.

“Captain Martin. The constable, sort of.”

Hester looked up expectantly. Lottie took a step forward. Elizabeth's face hardened. “I trust he's arrested my father's murderer.”

“Well …” Jones looked into his coffee, the only safe place he could think of. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly!”

“There were witnesses,” Jones said, hurrying now that he'd managed to broach the subject. “They say it was a fair fight, and one that Mr. Michaelson started. Now, give me a chance,” he said, standing and holding up a hand to cut off Elizabeth before she started. “Even your sister told it that way. He started it with the wrong man, is all. Holton Bagget's got him a reputation as a roisterer and knuckle dancer. Your pa took a broken bottle to him and Bagget picked up a three-legged stool.” He shrugged. “It was a poor choice of weapon on behalf of your pa. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. The law's on Bagget's side. He can't be touched.”

“I can't believe that,” Lottie said, her face white. “This is justice?”

“I reckon so,” Jones said, scratching his head. “I warned you. Warned you all.”

Lottie flushed, helped her mother to her feet.

“I … uh …” The wagon master replaced his hat, took a sip of coffee, and looked at each of the three women before going on. “That is, it makes everything especially uncomfortable seein' as I already told Bagget last week that he could ride along with us. He's headin' west, and I figured the extra gun would come in handy.”

“You invited that murderer! …” Shaking, lips tight, her face older by far than a seventeen year old's, Elizabeth fought for words.

“Now calm yourself, miss. That was before the killin', so I can't be held—”

“And now?” Lottie asked for them all.

“Well …” Jones was an easygoing man, one who avoided trouble whenever possible, and confrontations with angry, riled women were high on his list of trouble. Careful not to put out the fire, he poured the dregs of his coffee around the edge of the shallow pit before answering. “I can't see it makes any difference, to be truthful, 'cause there ain't gonna be no unescorted womenfolk in the train. Which is to say,” he mumbled, before coming right out with it, “you ain't goin'.”

“What?” Elizabeth asked, incredulous.

“That was agreed on a long time ago, miss. 'Fore I took this job.”

“But … but …” Elizabeth looked helplessly at Lottie, back to the wagon master. “But Father never said … Why weren't we told? That's not fair! You can't—”

“What your pa told you and what he didn't tell you ain't none of my business. That was the agreement, an' Medina told them all. You see, you got to understand. There's nothin' more dangerous and troublesome than unattached womenfolk in a wagon train. It's a fair far journey to Texas that can make folks sort of crazy. They do things, think things they might not do or think at home. Young pretties with no pa to keep a rein on 'em are just too plain fiercesome and tribulatin'.” He tried a conciliatory smile, but it failed miserably. “Like I said, no reflection on you personally, but that's the way it is. I'm sorry.”

“But we own land there,” Lottie said, near tears.

“Yes, ma'am, you do. Maybe you can sell the land to someone here,” Jones suggested, putting the cup on its hook, and backing away from the fire. “I'm sorry.”