Paxton and the Lone Star (18 page)

“Elizabeth,” he said.

Her brow furrowed. Her father had held her that way, crushed her to him, and frightened her. In True's arms, she had felt no fear. And yet … and yet … Puzzled, she looked at his lips. Her name sounded different, coming from them. As if she'd never heard it before, as if she were, perhaps, dreaming. Dazed, confused, she stepped away from him and leaned against the trunk for support. But the world whispered that it could not wait for her; nature commanded birds to fly, clouds to sail, waters to sing on their way to the sea, time to unreel as it sadly must. Two people on the raw free heights of a bewildering journey. The kiss had ended moments before. Blushing, Elizabeth lowered her face. And angry, too, though at him or herself she could not tell. She folded her arms across her chest, walked away from him along the bluff, turned around and came back. She searched for words but could find none, imagined a mocking smile on his face, and spun around to leave.

“Elizabeth,” True said again. She paused on the fringe of the trees as his voice drifted to her. “I am going to marry you. Within five minutes of the first moment I saw you, I knew I would. You did too, didn't you.”

No, she wanted to say. Her mouth opened but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. The denial died unspoken. Instead, she walked into the forest and, once out of his sight, began to run.

True watched her disappear, and after a moment moved to the edge of the bluff and sat with his legs dangling over the edge. The words had poured from him. He had been unable to control what he felt and had bluntly broached a subject that probably needed tenderness and finesse.

That was foolish, he thought, worrying. After all, what did he know of Elizabeth Michaelson? That her hair was like spun gold. That her lips were warm and full. That her body had betrayed the same urgency as his. That her eyes … Enough. He knew enough. More than enough. Being with her was right. She eased the loneliness in him at the same time she aroused his hunger. It was only a question of time.

Suddenly, with a joy that was impossible to contain, he was laughing. She had looked so surprised! So totally surprised. Blunt honesty had its strong points after all. And as for tenderness, Elizabeth Michaelson would soon learn that one True Paxton had plenty of that to share.

Chapter XIII

Distance growing out of distance and becoming … distance.

And the trees, the pines and the wind that stirred the branches with an everlasting soughing, dangled the branches, lifted the branches, waved the branches. And the sunlight streaming down in columns touched by Midas, radiant columns intersecting spaces and shadows with endless regularity, repeating themselves again and again.

It was the trees that drove her mad.

It was the whispering silence, too.

And memory … sunlight … distance … wind …

Her mind populated the passing wilderness with demons of fear and uncertainty.

“Hester.”

Someone said the name to her. It sounded vaguely familiar.

“Mother.”

Familiar, too. Was she Hester? Or Mother? Or neither? Were they perhaps commands? Be Hester? Be Mother?

She thought not. Madness was safer. There were no dead husbands in madness. There were no uncertainties in madness. There was no wilderness in madness, no theft of all the old and dear things.

Madness was simple, madness was safe.

She would search for madness, find madness. Be mad, stay mad.

Stay mad … where it was safe.

A hundred miles? More? They had crossed the Sabine on the thirtieth of October, rested three days later on Sunday, and now, on the following Saturday afternoon, the eighth of November, they plodded toward the campsite where Jones had said they'd spend that night and their next day of rest. The trail was well marked and, even if rough, it was easy to follow. It inscribed, in the map Jones had drawn for them, a sweeping arc that stretched from Gain's Ferry on the Sabine in far east Texas to San Antonio in south central Texas. The arc skirted the northern edge of a vast impenetrable wilderness that the Indians called the Big Woods and the white men called the Big Thicket.

It was an Indian summer day, hot and muggy. Men and mules alike were tired and cranky after a long week of travel. The women sat dazed and listless, waiting for another day of jolting, rocking motion to come to an end. The children were so bored they had stopped making mischief. Tommy Matlan lay on the rear gate of his parents' wagon and stared at the ground and then, wistfully—oh, what he would have given for a horse of his own—stared at True as he rode by.

The trail skirted natural barriers of marshland, angled around fallen trees, forded innumerable creeks too small to name. Held to a walk for the past week, Firetail tossed his mane and fought the bit. To let the stallion run would be suicidal, and yet True understood the great beast's desire to stretch his legs. In a minor concession, he eased Firetail into a trot as he passed the Matlans' wagon. Next in line were the Michaelsons. He glanced to his right. As usual, Elizabeth was driving, with Lottie at her side. Lottie smiled invitingly at him, in the process eliciting a scowl from Joseph, on horseback on her side of the wagon.

“Any problems?” True asked. “Be glad to drive for awhile.”

Elizabeth shook her head no, but did not answer or look at him.

True shrugged. She'd refused to have anything to do with him since that night on the bluff when he'd kissed her and told her he was going to marry her. She would set his plate in front of him, hand him a cup of coffee, and that was that. True grinned and tipped his hat. He could wait. She'd come around. He had every confidence in the world. “See you at supper,” he said cheerfully, and rode off.

Buckland and Mila Kania were in the lead again. True exchanged pleasantries with them, then let Firetail break into a canter in order to catch up to Jones and the Campbell boys, who led the way. Three quarters of the way asleep, Jones nodded in the saddle as his gray gelding plodded forward diligently. The big horse knew the trail well, and needed no direction. Still not believing Jones's assurances that they needn't fear an Indian attack for a good many miles yet, Mackenzie and Dennis Campbell rode with guns ready, just behind the wagon train master. True waved to them and rode past, letting Firetail break into a slow gallop as the ground rose and the trail through the virgin pines widened. Firetail snorted in delight. Behind him, great clods of the pine needle carpet flew from his feet to reveal a deep reddish brown sandy loam. A mile ahead of the wagon train, True rounded a bend into a clearing and found Hogjaw, Andrew, and an Indian.

They had run into Indians several times on the journey from Solitary to Natchez. Each time, to True's continuing amazement, Hogjaw had known either the Indians or someone else from their tribe. Choctaw, Natchez, or Alabama, they were all friends of the mountain man—even the Comanches, strangely enough given his past run-ins with them. Comanches, like the rest of the horse Indians—Apache, Sioux, Cheyenne, and so on—had a different way of thinking, Hogjaw had told him more than once. Just because they scalped you one day didn't mean they weren't going to be your friend the next. A man had to take them as they came and keep an eye peeled. Fiercer, prouder men never set face on earth, and if a man stood up to them, they respected him for it, especially if he had something they wanted to trade for. And even more especially if he'd been scalped, lived to tell about it, and went back to walk bravely among the People.

It was a hell of a price to pay for respect, True thought, holding up his hand, palm out, in a sign of friendship as he rode toward the trio. The brave wore a breechclout and buckskin leggings. Beadwork of porcupine quills and glass baubles obtained from some passing trader decorated his chest. He carried a bow and a quiver of feathered arrows slung across his back.

“Coushatta,” Hogjaw said by way of identification. “One of the Caddo tribes. Good people.”

True extended his hand as Hogjaw went on to introduce him to the brave in Spanish.

“His name is Runs the Deer,” Andrew said excitedly. “His people are camped about two days ride to the south.”

“Brings us welcome news,” Hogjaw added. “Seems the Comanche are raiding further to the west this year. Be a disappointment to the Campbell boys, but mighty comforting to the rest of the folks, includin' me. Looks like we got us a long, clear ride to San Antonio, True boy.”

“Fine with me,” True said. “What's that all about?”

The brave had taken off a wide, multicolored beaded belt and was holding it up in one hand while he gestured at Firetail with the other.

“He wants to trade his wampum belt for that hammerhead roan of yours.” Hogjaw grinned. “Injuns don't worry much about looks neither.”

“No trade,” True replied, shaking his head.

Though it was apparent that Runs the Deer understood, Hogjaw conveyed the message, then translated a second offer. “He says the belt is worth many horses, but to show you that he is serious and respects you, he'll throw in the nag he's ridin' and the pick of his wives.”

“Nope,” True said. “No deal.”

Runs the Deer scowled, and grunted what sounded like a question that True didn't need translated.

“Tell him,” he added quickly, “that it's no reflection on him, his horse, or his wives. This horse is special, and I'll trade him to no man. And what are you up to?” he went on to Andrew while Hogjaw translated. “You look like the cat that ate the bird.”

“Yeah. Well …” Andrew seemed to have trouble meeting True's eyes. “What I decided is, ah … Well, since there isn't that much chance of trouble, I figured I'd be leaving.”

“What?” True asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “Where to?”

“Runs the Deer has invited me to visit with his people,” Andrew blurted. “Seems like a good chance to—”

“I know his father,” Hogjaw interrupted, obviously on Andrew's side. “Ol' Blade is the chief now and Runs the Deer is next in line for the job. Be a right nice experience for Andrew here.”

“What about the land grant?”

“Hell, True, we don't even know if we're gonna take them up on that. Besides, I'm too young to settle down. I want to see the elephant.”

“A man owes it to himself,” Hogjaw said approvingly.

“See the elephant?” True exclaimed, upset with Leakey and not bothering to hide it. “This was your notion, wasn't it? Even gave him the reasons why he ought to go.”

“It's my life,” Andrew retorted angrily.

Hogjaw feigned innocence. “Argue with that and you're arguing with yourself, True boy.”

True searched for some way to dispute Hogjaw's logic, then grudgingly conceded that the mountain man was right. “Well …”

“C'mon, brother. You know Pa would think it was a good idea.”

“I don't know,” True said, stalling for time. “There's just the three of us. Joseph'll have something to say—”

“Joseph won't have anything to say,” Andrew interrupted. “This is between Runs the Deer and myself.” He leaned forward in his saddle to grip True's wrist. “I'm going, True. I'll join up with you in San Antonio later on. It's settled.”

And so it was. The look in Andrew's eyes told him so. “When are you leaving?” True finally asked, resigned.

Andrew gave a whoop of joy. “This afternoon, soon as I shake Joseph's hand and gather my gear from the wagon.” He reached over and clasped True's shoulder. “I don't have to go alone. You could come with us.”

“He can't,” Hogjaw said. Both True and Andrew looked at the mountain man. “True's got a different path to walk.”

“Oh?” Andrew said.

“He's right,” True said, the image of Elizabeth strong in his mind. He nodded in the direction of the coming wagons. “You better think up some good words. Big brother may take some convincing.”

Andrew grinned. “I have a few minutes before they get here. I guess Runs the Deer and I will just wait for them. Least I can do is gather some firewood as a last gesture.”

“This where we're camping, then?” True asked.

Hogjaw nodded. “Yup.” He pointed with his nose. “Plenty of fresh water. A chance for everybody to look at the sky for once. Couldn't do much better. Want to scout around a little first, though. Comin' with me, True? Little place up ahead where you can let that ugly thing run his legs off for a minute.”

“Sounds good to me.”

The mountain man rattled off a string of Spanish to Runs the Deer, then turned back to Andrew as he started to ride away. “Mind you holler out first thing you hear horses. Them Campbell boys is primed an' ready to open up on the first redskin they see. Don't want 'em startin' a war with the Coushatta.”

Old man and young rode in silence for the first few hundred yards. Finally, True pulled up. “I thought you said there was an open place where Firetail could run.”

Mama, Hogjaw's mule, kept to her steady plodding pace. “There is,” Hogjaw said. “Bout a hundred miles down the road.”

“What the hell?” True spurred Firetail, and caught up.

“Take it easy, True boy,” the mountain man said laconically. “Sometimes two talkin' is better'n three.”

“Oh, really?” True fumed. “Well, all I got to say is you sure know a lot for being such an ugly old bastard. Or think you do, anyway.”

Hogjaw mulled that over for a moment. “Comanches took my scalp, True boy,” he allowed at last. “They left the brains right where they were.” He winked, and his left fist shot out and caught True in the biceps, almost knocking him off Firetail. “C'mon, younker. You too, Mama,” he added, kicking the jenny in the ribs. “Let's find us a deer or two for supper.”

In the quiet of a glade, in the stillness of an autumn afternoon, in the wilderness that was Texas, three brothers sat in silence, searching for something more to say. Something more than goodbye. But words wouldn't come, as they seldom do for family. There are words of farewell for enemies and for friends, but for family only a silent special tightness in the throat. Joseph, the eldest, was the first to break the silence. “Guess I don't have to tell you to take care of yourself, little brother.”