Paxton and the Lone Star (23 page)

“And you are the most … the most …” A lump was in her throat and she felt her eyes tearing. Blindly, too shaken to say more, Elizabeth stood on tiptoe and kissed him, then as quickly stooped to pick up her dirty clothes and ran off through the trees.

The path seemed different, the trees out of place. Elizabeth did not remember the stumbling, awkward return to camp, only that she arrived from a different direction than that from which she had departed. Making no more noise than a cloud passing the moon, she stole quietly past the Kanias' wagon, ducked under a low limb, and found herself next to the Paxton wagon where the sound of labored breathing and a shuddering moan stopped her in her tracks. The canvas had been torn by a tree limb jutting onto the trail, and through the tear, illuminated by the dull glow of a lantern and the moonlight filtering through the canvas, she saw … flesh on flesh. Beads of perspiration like jewels scattered on flesh. Legs wrapped about a waist. Large, white, muscular buttocks driving down, rising and falling.

Lottie's voice, and Joseph's, blending. Lottie's whispered cry, Joseph's gutteral answer.

“Now.”

“Now.”

“Now!”

Lottie turning. Her mouth an open, silent “O,” her glazed eyes focusing on her sister.

Joseph groaning, his back arched, his eyes closed as his seed exploded from him.

Lottie's eyes, accusing and delighting and alive with satiation, as full as after a feast when hunger has been met.

The smell of heated flesh, salt smell of sweat and fluid animal scent. Backing, reeling, fighting for control, Elizabeth panicked as though her father's arms were reaching out for her in the darkness. Carl Michaelson had wanted that. That!

Damn him, damn him, damn him!

Sobbing, Elizabeth fled and fell, lay panting at the base of a huge old sweet-smelling cedar. There, her mind whirling in confusion, she tried to sort out and separate the beauty of love from the awful secret of her father's sordid lust. It was impossible. Lust and love mingled inextricably until only the grunting, sweating release of beasts, blind in their orgiastic fury, remained.

At long last, exhausted, she pushed herself to her knees. It was no use. Thinking was too painful. She would sleep instead, and then go about her work. There was comfort in the necessity of daily tasks.

On leaden feet, ordering one leg before the other, Elizabeth walked to the wagon. Sleep, she thought, climbing onto the lazy board and ducking under the canvas. Sleep …

Her breath caught in her throat and her pulse hammered in her temples. Her hands, bloodless talons, gripped the wood siding. It took a long, horrifying moment for her to fully comprehend.

Hester Michaelson was gone.

Chapter XVI

True found her late the next afternoon, almost a half mile from camp. It was plain to everyone what had happened. Hester had walked off into the night searching for Lord knew what. Somehow finding the river, she had walked north through the shallows, emerging only when the water became too deep, and struck out for higher ground. A hundred yards farther, she had tripped and tumbled into a ravine where her head caught in a crook formed by two branches. Her neck had snapped cleanly and quickly: there could have been no more than a flash of pain, and then instant death.

Death.

Elizabeth stared coldly at the dark rich earth cresting over the lip of the grave and at the simple wooden cross with her mother's name carved on it. Morning light slid through the trees. In the distance, crows cawed and warned the wild world that humans were present. Reverend Kania's reading from the New Testament was so much gibberish to her. Lottie, cradled in Joseph's embrace, wept and wept and wept.

When the service ended, Thaddeus Jones searched for the easiest way to announce that the wagon train must continue. It was Monday morning and they had to be on their way. San Antonio was still many agonizing miles down a long trail. “You know we got to leave her,” he finally said. “Hard as it is to say or do, it might as well be now.” He cleared his throat. “True or Hogjaw can drive for you, if you want. I'll put someone else on to scout.”

“That won't be necessary,” Elizabeth said coldly, brushing past him and walking determinedly through the other families, whose bereaved faces showed their sorrow over this latest misfortune. As if on signal, the rest of the settlers started for their wagons. Only Hogjaw lingered at the gravesite, and only Buckland Kania saw him give a sad shake of his disfigured head and heard him mutter, “… the howling wilderness.”

Wagons wheeled, axles creaked. The settlers took their places in line. Joseph led Lottie to her wagon, but when she started to climb up beside her sister, Elizabeth shoved her back and grabbed a whip to drive home the point. “You couldn't wait, could you?” she hissed. “You couldn't watch her for half an hour, you had to race off to Joseph. A pair of rutting animals, that's what you are. Rutting animals while your own mother died!”

Stricken, Lottie's hand flew to her mouth and she began to wail again.

“Now look here,” Joseph said, color coming to his face. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

“You stay away from me, Joseph Paxton. You have your own wagon. Put her in it and let her ride with you. You can ride to San Antonio or ride to Hell. I don't care which, but you stay away from me. Both of you.”

Her face buried in her hands, Lottie stifled a cry, and ran. Joseph's mouth opened as if he would answer, but then closed in a grim line. Quivering with rage, he stalked off after Lottie and helped her into his wagon.

A whip cracked. Scott Campbell shouted at his mules and took the lead. True walked Firetail abreast of the Michaelson wagon. “Elizabeth?”

I
will not cry. I will drive this wagon, and I will do what has to be done.

“Elizabeth?”

She turned, and though her expression was one of lashing anger, he saw the wounded desperation behind the mask. She looked at and through him, then leaned down to untie the reins and take them in her hands. “Leave me alone,” she said, her voice raw with anguish. “Please, for right now, leave me alone.”

True nodded in silent acquiescence. He wanted to go to her yet knew how impossible that was, for she was not yet ready to share her sorrow. One day she would, though. Of that he was certain. Mounting, he rode ahead, ignoring the heart that implored him to return.

They forded the river, climbed the opposite bank, and left the mount of earth, the crudely fashioned marker beneath which Hester Michaelson slept her final sleep. The right wheels struck a root, but Elizabeth did not notice. The mules strained against the rising hills, eased down the lengthening slopes. She did not notice that either.

Lottie's fault.

Lottie. Always Lottie. I left too. I left her alone. I never loved her enough. My fault. Mine.

“No!” she said aloud, surprised by her own voice and looking around to make sure no one had heard.

My mother and father. Both gone. Not enough love for either. When does it stop? Where does the blame lie?

She had told Lottie to stay. Lottie had agreed. And then left. Left.

All gone. All.

Elizabeth wiped her swollen eyes. She was the last. Her family was dead. All dead. Lottie too, as far as she was concerned. She was alone.

PART THREE

Chapter XVII

A man reined in his horse, waved his hat in a great circle, and let out a whoop of recognition. Behind him, the drivers of a half dozen wagons broke column and drew up in a ragged line along the crest of a ridge. They were all strangely silent as they gazed down at the city below them, for they had traveled many weeks and many miles and found it difficult to believe they now looked upon their destination. They had placed their lives and their life savings on the line, had left homes and families and friends to strike out for the unknown. Now, their fears were allayed and joy blossomed in their hearts. The moment was too precious to be marred by cheers or shouts, at least at first.

And then, the spell was broken.

“San Antonio?” True asked, hardly daring to believe.

“You got it, True boy.” Hogjaw raised his voice so all could hear. “There she is, folks. Old San Antone. Feast your eyes and stretch your grins! You done by God made it!”

One and all, they poured from the wagons, shouted and cheered. Hats flew into the air. Nels and Eustacia Matlan danced, were joined by Scott and Joan Campbell. Wagon-master Thaddeus Jones broke out his bottle. Dennis and Mackenzie Campbell and Joseph wasted powder firing at the sky. “Wait!” Buckland Kania shouted, holding up his hands for silence. “Please.”

Slowly, the settlers sobered. They gathered about the man of God in a loose semicircle, and bowed their heads.

“God …” He paused, blinked back tears. “We're here, You brought us here, and … Well, God, for once in my life I don't know what to say, except … Thank You. We all just plain … thank You.”

A horse stamped its hoof, nickered softly. A passing breeze ruffled and popped one of the canvas wagon covers and went on to whisper softly through a cedar. A mule shook its head and set harness jangling. Half a century before “the shot heard 'round the world” began the American Revolution, San Antonio had been a center of commerce, an established hub of trade and civilization in Spanish America. On that deceptively warm December afternoon more than a century later, it seemed little changed. Gray and brown and whitewashed adobe houses sat alone tree-lined dirt streets. A river undulated through the heart of town, and the thin lines of meandering aqueducts and irrigation ditches glimmered in the sunlight. Everything looked very peaceful from a mile away. San Antonio appeared to be a city without pretense, and yet as inviting as the mysterious veiled smile of a señorita.

A road intersected the ridge, sprang from the trail of wagon ruts to become a full-fledged highway called
El Camino Viejo de las Carretas
or, as Jones translated roughly, the Old Cart Road. True looked back at the weatherbeaten, patched wagons. “Fitting,” he muttered to himself, including the settlers in his assessment. They were not the same people who had set out from Natchez, Mississippi two months earlier. Their clothes were worn and patched. Their skin had become tough and leathery, tanned by sun and wind alike. Their faces had hardened, as had their eyes. Laughter came less readily. The wilderness had changed them. Texas had transformed them. True was vaguely aware that the metamorphosis would continue. The vastness of the land would continue to work its way on them: a journey's end was also the next journey's beginning.

“I hope our land looks like that,” Mila Kania said.

“More rolling in places, flatter in others. How you divvy it up is for you to figure out. My job's about done.” Jones straightened in the saddle and rubbed his leg where it hurt when a weather change was coming. “Right now—” He pointed to where a blue gray line of clouds dulled the northern sky. “That there's one of them northers I was tellin' you about. It's gonna get cold as hell around here before nightfall, so I reckon we'd best get down there.”

“To our land?” Nels Matlan asked.

Jones shook his head and pointed further south. “Medina's
hacienda
is to the south of town over that rise. Your land's a little farther out. We'll check in with the local authorities before we head out that way, probably tomorrow morning.”

“Why can't some of us start for Medina's right now?” Jack Kemper asked, anxious to see the raw substance of his Texas empire.

“'Cause things just ain't done that way, in the first place, and because of what those fellas travelin' east told us the other day in the second. Bein' in Mexico and subject to Mex law ain't exactly the same as in the U.S. Out here, when there's a new regime, it's best to find out which way the wind's blowin' before you run off tryin' to do too much. I don't personally know this Santa Anna who's the new president, but I do know General Cos, and he's a damned popinjay. If we go through town without payin' our respects, his feelin's'll be hurt and he'll likely send us some grief out of pure cussedness. In any case, we're gonna want a warm place for the night. Ain't gonna make that much …”

“Oh, my God!”

Everyone turned toward the cry. Mildred Thatche was doubled over and clutching her abdomen. A stunned Kevin, his eyes wide with panic, had his arms around her. Eustacia hurriedly recruited three of the men to help carry Mildred to her wagon and then climbed in with her. A moment later, she stuck her head out the back. “You'd better come help, Joan,” she called. “And Mr. Jones, there's a higher law than that of Mexico. The baby is coming. If there's a hotel and a real bed in that town, we'd better get her there. Now!”

“Damn and holy damn!” Jones swore, riding to the wagon. He dismounted, climbed onto the driver's seat and took the reins. “Climb up, Kevin boy, and hold on tight. Hogjaw, get my horse. Let's go!”

They all moved as one, hurrying to horse and wagon. Seconds later, with the Thatches' wagon in the lead, the re-formed column rumbled off the ridge and down the hill toward town.

General Perfecto Cos smoothed his moustache across the pencil-thin line of his lips. His expression one of pensive appraisal, he listened to Thaddeus Jones explain the reason for the hurried flight of this new group of settlers from the north into his city. “I see,” he muttered at last. “The birth of an infant. I see.” One eyebrow raised. “But you must understand my soldiers' alarm. I will have your belongings released to you.”

Jones translated roughly to True and Scott and motioned for them to go tell the other settlers while the general issued orders to his adjutant. Scott left, True remained. “That storm's almost here,” True pointed out. “Is there some place the rest of us can go?”

“There is an inn on
Calle de la Acequia
just off the
Plaza de las Islas,”
Cos answered, understanding True's English but responding in Spanish.
“La Casa del Rio.
It should serve your needs.” He turned back to Jones. “And the mother, you say, is being taken care of? You are sure?”