Paxton and the Lone Star (15 page)

“I … I …” Tears ran down Hester's cheeks and, untouched, fell to the ground. “I suppose there is no alternative,” she finally said in a voice deadened by the realization that she had lost and would not, no matter how greatly she wanted to, go home again. Stiffly, she rose and faced Jones. “We accept your offer. And now, if you'll excuse me?” Her back painfully rigid, as if the vertebrae would snap if she let them bend, Hester walked to the wagon and climbed in.

“Mother's very distressed, I'm afraid,” Lottie said, rising, “but I can't imagine she'll stay that way forever. In any case—” She shrugged and, the immediate crisis past, shed her seriousness as one would a cape that had grown too warm for the weather. “—I can't
stand
being so morose on such a beautiful day. After all, we're going on an adventure together, aren't we?” Her smile was dazzling as she offered her hand to Joseph. “I hope you don't look so serious all the time, Mr. Paxton. Have you had breakfast?”

It was impossible to remain glum. A slow smile warmed Joseph's face. “Yes ma'am. I'll have coffee if there's some ready, though. And you can call me Joseph.”

In her element, Lottie had come to life. “I would like that, Joseph,” she said. Her hair floated behind her head as she turned from one brother to the next. “And I'll call you Andrew, and you?… Oh, yes. True. What a funny name.” Her laughter, bright and clear, told him it was a perfectly lovely name as well. “Will you have coffee with us, True?”

“Yes, ma'am,” True said, looking in the direction Elizabeth had taken.

Normalcy returned to the clearing. Joseph added wood to the fire. Lottie bustled about getting cups and directing Andrew to fill the pot with fresh water. “Well?” True asked Jones.

The wagon train master looked dubious, as if he didn't trust the radical shift of moods from tears to laughter. “I hope it works,” he said.

“Me too,” True agreed. He glanced away from the clearing to where Elizabeth stood at the edge of the forest. “Not sure what to think about her, though.”

Jones grinned. Of the three Paxtons, True had impressed him the most from the start. And now, as Joseph and Andrew bustled to Lottie's beck and call, True impressed him again with his obvious choice of the quieter, less voluptuous but seemingly far stronger Elizabeth. “Be a good idea,” the black man said with a nod in Elizabeth's direction, “if you was to set her at ease a little. If you've a mind to.”

True didn't need convincing. The sound of Lottie's laughter at his back, he walked to Elizabeth and stood at her side. “Miss Michaelson … Elizabeth, that is,” he began lamely, aware of her anger and wanting badly to defuse it. “… your mother and sister have agreed to our arrangment. I thought maybe I ought to hear your feelings on the matter.”

They could see through a gap in the trees to the broad expanse of the Mississippi. “I wanted to go to Texas,” Elizabeth finally said. “Now I know I will. I suppose that's what counts.”

“Yes, ma'am.” She was just a girl, but he called her “ma'am” and wondered about that. “About the land. Like I said, we may not want it. Even if we do, a thousand acres is plenty for three women, and the cash'll come in handy.”

Her pale eyes glistening, Elizabeth looked up at him. “It doesn't matter. Mother and Lottie own two-thirds of everything. Once we're in Texas, my share will go along with theirs.”

True hooked his thumbs in his belt. A large blue green beetle crawled along the ground in front of his foot. He nudged it with his toe, watched it flip over and kick helplessly, then nudged it again to turn it back over, and watched it scurry off. “I'm sorry about your father, Elizabeth,” he said.

Confused and angry, hating her own stubbornness, Elizabeth neither replied nor looked at him, though she could feel his comforting presence at her side. It was an enticing sensation. Overhead, a breeze soughing through the trees whispered to her, but she could not understand what it said. Not then. Not right then.

Chapter X

Monday morning before first light, the secret sounds of night were interrupted by the low murmur of men's voices, the neigh and snort of mules and horses, and the jangle of harness. Woven through these masculine, equine notes, were the softer, sweeter tones of women at work clanking pots and closing trunks. Little arpeggios of nervous laughter and excitement rose above the small and flickering fires. The rich smell of frying fish and crusty gold cornbread and thick, black coffee played a somber counterpoint to the melody of people on the move, westering.

This was no idle jaunt to be lightly undertaken. As the men gathered around the fires and their voices stilled, you could see that in their faces, and the faces of their women as well. They possessed pieces of paper that said they owned land, and their own stock pulled their own wagons loaded with their own goods, yet they sensed that these material goods were in the main ephemeral. All they really owned were their lives and their reputations, both of which were at stake as they struck out anew. There were dangerous miles ahead, where peril awaited them, formless peril except to men like Thaddeus Jones and Hogjaw Leakey, who had ridden and driven and even walked these trails before.

Withal, an undercurrent of heady excitement ran strong among the settlers. An eagerness to be on the way, to feel the wheels moving beneath them, to contend with whatever rose to impede their way, and to taste the triumph of adventure met head on. Theirs was a sense of mission and of history that surpassed their own puny individual desires and goals. They were the vanguard of civilization determined to wrest a vast section of a continent from the ungodly heathen, then transform it into a lush paradise by virtue of their bravery and tenacity and hard work. Danger was their meat, adversity their bread, hardship their drink. They would feast, and on that invigorating diet, grow lean and hard and strong. And they would prevail.

Thaddeus Jones and Hogjaw Leakey knew it wasn't that simple. Somber now as the black of night grayed and the land began to stir and wake, the two men hunkered across the fire from each other and finished the water moccasin steaks they'd fried the night before. Somewhere off in the woods a crow called reveille. “Well?” Jones said, looking around as if to check the bird's timing.

“Reckon,” Hogjaw grunted.

Coffee dregs were poured on fire. Cups rinsed, pot emptied, dried, tied to saddle. Urine hissed onto coals then covered with dirt and stomped down evenly. A final check before yet another leavetaking. They were men accustomed to living off the land, taking their substance from it. They preferred coexistence with nature, a symbiotic relationship in which they disturbed as little as possible while passing through unnoticed, but knew the chances of doing so, especially with a wagon train in tow, were slim. The land and what lived on it could turn against them in many ways, so they were prepared to defend themselves with an economy that contrasted sharply with the settlers' loaded wagons. Blanket, slicker, and duster. Two knives and a tomahawk. A rifle and two pistols. Shot, powder, flint. Two loosely coiled ropes. Pot, frypan, cup. A foodbag containing a pound of coffee, a pound of rock candy, ten pounds of flour, ten more of beans, and a small bag of salt. An extra pair of socks. A needle. A bar of lye soap. And a bottle of whiskey. A man who knew how, traveled light.

“Well, Mama, here we go again. Up and at 'em, girl.” Hogjaw swung aboard the scrawny mule and nodded to Jones. “See you at the landin', Blackie.”

Blackie was a nickname that Jones accepted from few men. He waited for Hogjaw to ride off, then mounted and sat quietly, relishing his last moments of solitude. Once he joined the settlers, they would be his responsibility until they arrived in San Antonio some two months later. It was one hell of a way to make a living. But at least Hogjaw was along. There'd be one person to talk to. “You ready, horse?” he said.

The thick-chested, mud-dappled gray gelding pricked up his ears and shook his head.

“Me neither,” Jones said. “But somebody's gotta get them greenhorns to Texas, and we already been paid, so let's go.”

They looked just like the last batch he'd escorted and the one before that, Jones thought, pulling to a halt at the edge of the clearing. The six wagons were drawn up in a rough semicircle headed by the Kanias. All trailed an extra horse or mule, three a milk cow as well. The Paxtons and the Campbell boys rode horses, the rest sat stiffly erect in their wagons. Their faces, pale and featureless in the gray light, looked to the West. No one spoke, for each was busy with secret thoughts. They had left behind home and livelihood. They had crossed Pennsylvania and Ohio. They had rafted and steamboated down a thousand miles of river. And still they hadn't left civilization. Now they were about to, and their apprehension was apparent.

The wagon train master watched their faces turn as one to him when he entered the clearing. “Mornin', folks. Y'all fixin' to go somewhere?” he asked, trying to break the tension.

Someone laughed and Jones felt better. It was a good group, he thought. Green but willing, ready on their own without his having to prod them. Starting at the rear, he rode slowly along the line, checking the wagons, stock and gear. “Mornin', Nels, Mrs. Matlan.” An experienced eye could discern nothing out of order. “Where's Tommy?”

“Over here, Mr. Jones,” the boy called.

Andrew Paxton cantered up. “Ridin' with me, Mr. Jones.”

Jones grunted his approval, moved up the line with a word for everyone, and stopped at the Michaelson wagon. Elizabeth was driving, Hester sat between her daughters. Joseph and True rode to right and left. “You all right, Mrs. Michaelson?”

Hester nodded, barely.

“You know how to handle them mules, Elizabeth?”

“Of course,” came the curt reply.

Jones decided that then was as good a time as any to find out how capable she was. “Keep a close eye,” he told True, and moved on.

“Well, Reverend, you're first in line. I guess we're ready.”

“Not quite, Mr. Jones,” Kania said, rising and turning to face the other wagons. “We will pray before we leave.”

The men removed their hats. All bowed their heads. Firetail snorted and whinnied, but no one paid attention.

“Almighty Father, Thou who watcheth over us, we Thy servants bow our heads in praise and supplication. As we venture forth, we humbly beg the strength that comes from knowing Thee. We ask that Thy love enfold us and Thy power protect us. And as Thou leadeth us to the new land we seek, help us to keep Thy name before us in all matters and to magnify Thy name to Thy greater glory.

“Thou art our God, Oh God. We have no other.

“We haste this prayer in Thy name, and in the name of Thine only son, Jesus Christ, the risen lamb and our Redeemer. Amen.”

“Amen,” twenty-two voices murmured reverently.

Jones gave them an extra five seconds and then clamped his hat on his head to signal it was time to replace prayer with practicality. “Boat's waitin', folks,” he called. “Let's say goodbye to this place. Wagonnnsss—” Durned if it still didn't give him goosebumps, he thought. “—ho!”

The stock was fresh, the trail to the riverbank hard-packed and easily negotiated. The sun was just showing over the flat land behind them when the wagons pulled to a stop at the ferry landing. “Captain will oversee the loading,” Jones called after handing over the prearranged fee to a short, stubby man with one sound leg and the other of wood. “His name is Jorunn Maland, if you've any questions. Let's not waste time.”

Hogjaw was waiting off to one side. “That it?” Jones asked, riding to him and gesturing to a wagon already waiting on the shallow draft ferry.

“Yup. Two hundred pounds of seed corn, five hundred pounds of oats, a hundred seed and the rest for eatin' along the way, an' six tubs of grease,” Hogjaw said. “The mules ain't the best in the world, but they'll do. Oh, yeah. And I picked up a half dozen extra water barrels, though I doubt we'll need them this time of year.”

Jones nodded in approval and watched the loading. The Kanias went first, followed by Jack Kemper and his shrewish wife, Helen, who had made no effort to hide her displeasure with the Michaelson girls and the four male companions that had joined them. Next, Scott Campbell guided his team onto the ferry on foot while Dennis and Mackenzie helped the Thatches.

“Would you like me to drive them aboard?” True asked Elizabeth, next in line.

“I can manage,” Elizabeth replied stiffly, determined not to give an inch.

“Whatever you say.” He gestured to the team. “That off mule looks a little spooked. Keep his head up and use your whip if he balks.”

Hester looked worried. “Are you sure—”

“Mother,” Elizabeth snapped in warning.

“Get that damned ugly horse aboard,” the captain yelled at True. “All the way forward with him. And you, miss,” he went on as True followed orders. “Time's a'wastin'.”

The mules started forward at the flick of the reins, walked surefootedly down the path and onto the gangplank at the same time Holton Bagget and one of his cronies appeared from behind and darted past them. Startled, the off mule shied and backed sideways. The reins went slack and the team lost its lead. Elizabeth grabbed for the brake and jerked it toward her, but not before the right front wheel was half off the edge of the gangplack.

Hester screamed. Elizabeth froze, one hand on the brake handle, the other holding the reins. The wagon creaked backward a half inch. Suddenly, a buckskin-clad figure astride a scrawny, nimblefooted jenny appeared alongside the frightened team. The man reached out, caught the lead mule's reins, and literally hauled it back from the edge. Bellowing a curse at the team, he turned in the saddle and gave Elizabeth, Lottie, and Hester a glimpse of his hellish face. “Push off the brake, damn it! Let it go!”