Paxton and the Lone Star (7 page)

“Who the hell asked for your opinion?” Joseph asked, bridling.

“We'll do,” Andrew added, equally defensive.

“Oh, my oh my. Temper like a grizz at an empty hive.” The mountain man focused on True. “And what have you to say, younker?”

True took his time answering. “Nothing,” he finally said, his eyes darting from Hogjaw to Thomas and back again. “Until I figure out what you two are cooking up. Besides a pig, that is.”

“Ah, True lad.” Hogjaw's eyes twinkled and his cheek flaps bobbed up and down. “I knew you had a head on your shoulders. Always wait to get riled until you have a good reason. Makes it hard to tell if your craw's full of goosefeathers or sand. We'll see, though, one of these fine days.”

“Which tells me nothing,” True said.

“No it doesn't, does it?” Hogjaw said, turning and walking toward the pit. “First things first, though, says I,” he shot over his shoulder. “A homecoming first, and then we'll talk.”

“About what?” Andrew asked, following him a few steps.

“Leaving,” came the guttural reply as the buckskin-clad figure trudged off.

“Leaving?” Andrew looked at his father. “Leaving for where? What's he talking about?”

“Ah, he's just been in the woods too damn long,” Joseph said.

“Maybe,” Thomas agreed, moving to join Hogjaw, “but like the man says, first things first. You'll find out soon enough.”

True folded his arms and blotted out Andrew and Joseph's conversation. Bird and insect sounds, the smell of smoke and cooking pork. His father serious and, in retrospect, soft-spoken. Hogjaw Leakey, hard as granite and nimble as a mountain goat, plucking the knives from the pig, tossing True's to him, and licking the grease from his before sheathing it. Leaving. The word had a sound and feel to it that matched the air of expectancy that, happy as he was to be at Solitary once again, prickled the hairs at the back of his neck and raised goose bumps on his arms. Turning, he looked back to the house where his mother stood framed in an upper story window. Leaving. She knew. She always knew. And was beginning, he could tell by the cast of her shoulders and the tilt of her head, to say goodbye.

Chapter III

“Think of it! Deserts dry as bone and lonely as the grave. Swamps so deep no white man has ever seen their innards. Mile upon mile of low mountains covered with mighty cedars that tower to skies so clear and blue they must be the color of God's eyes. Coastal marshes flat as a table and brimming with ducks and geese. Why, a man can bring down vittles for a week with a single load of buckshot. And plains. Plains, I say, vast as a mighty ocean, so broad and wide a man can travel across them 'til his guts quiver and still not reach the end. Not like these tame little meadows you got here,” Hogjaw rhapsodized. The firelight glowed in his eyes and the shadows played a danse macabre on his sagging face.

“The
Llano Estacado,
the Staked Plains in English, are still closed to the white man, but there are others. Plains that roll gently and rumble to the sound of Lord Buffalo. Buffalo, aye! Millions of 'em, and the best eatin' a man might ever know in a lifetime. Buffalo hump is mother's milk, and the tongue—” His eyes closed as he remembered “—is ambrosia.”

In the darkness outside the net-enclosed gazebo where they sat, fireflies hovered suspended in space like tiny floating lanterns, and a multitude of insect songs filled the heavy, warm night air. Inside, around the table, Joseph pretended indifference and Andrew gnawed thoughtfully on a pork rib while True sat with closed eyes and pictured the awesome world Hogjaw had conjured. Thomas nudged Adriana, who leaned across his chest and refilled his clay mug with the cider he kept for special occasions. “All that is very good, Hogjaw,” she said, topping off his mug too. “But our home is here.”

“I'm not talkin' about you or Thomas,” the mountain man said, spitting out a chunk of gristle and reaching for his mug. “I'm talkin' about these here boys and about raw beginnin's for 'em. I'm talkin' about land made holy by distance and a kingdom beggin' for the souls hearty enough to wrest it from Mother Nature, the old whore—beggin' your pardon.” He touched his fingers to the cap he wore to conceal the piece of pigskin sewn into his scalp.

Adriana acknowledged his apology with a nod. “I know,” she said, a hint of sadness in her voice. “I understand. There have always been such places, and young men—and the young at heart—” she amended with a sweet smile, “have always flown to them.” She rose to awkward silence, leaned over and kissed Thomas on the cheek. “I will miss my sons,” she whispered, to everyone's surprise, and hurriedly left.

“It's harder on the womenfolk,” Hogjaw finally said, nodding sagely. “They feel the leavin' worse than men.”

The playing shadows made their faces look as serious as the conversation had become. “I wouldn't count on that,” Thomas said.

“If Texas is so wonderful,” Joseph asked, “why'd you come back here?”

“To see your pa,” Hogjaw answered without hesitation. “Man like me runs across a good deal of humankind, but counts his friends on the fingers of one hand. You know how long I've known that man acrost the table?”

“I've heard,” Joseph said.

“Since 1795,” Hogjaw went on, paying Joseph no attention. “We was younkers, no more than fourteen when we run off to sea together. Why, hell, we seen more of this world in ten years than the three of you could draw a map of. Places so far distant it'd make your head swim. We fought pirates—fought
with
'em, too—and was shipwrecked together. Hell, I stood up for him the day he married your mother, Joseph, a woman I loved too.” He sighed, shook his head dolefully. “But she had an eye for him, by God. I never did stop bein' his friend, though, and never stopped owin' him either, for as many times as I saved his life, he saved mine once more.”

“Well, now,” Thomas demurred, reddening.

“It's the truth, damn it Thomas. And if I don't repay you personal, well …” He sputtered, searched for words. “Well, hell! I'd hate to think this was the last time in my life I was gonna see a Paxton.”

“The last time?” True asked in the silence that followed his outburst.

“By this hand, True lad.” The mountain man's voice dropped, and he seemed to be looking into a distance only he could visualize. “I ain't gettin', any younger. How many more times do you think I can make this trek? No, it's not long, says I, that these old bones'll move a mite too slow and a Injun lance will put an end to Hogjaw Leakey.” His gaze turned to True and his voice returned from that far place. “Mind you, I carry nor remorse nor grudge. Bloodthirsty heathens that Injuns be, they're a kinder fate than old age, for at least a man knows he's dyin' and don't totter off like a babe.” The folds in Hogjaw's cheeks rearranged themselves into a grin as he called for the cider jug and filled his mug. “God, but this is as silken a snake poison as ever bit me!”

True had heard Hogjaw spin poetic tales of the far sides of mountains before, but never had he known him to reveal so deep an introspective streak. Mulling over the older man's words, he pondered what he'd heard of Texas—that it was part of Mexico and that land-hungry settlers from the States were buying immense tracts of land with the expectation of taming the savage wilderness. Hogjaw was the first person True knew personally who had actually been there. He took a sip of cider, felt the world shift beneath his feet, and knew he'd had enough to drink.

“Tom Gunn Paxton,” Hogjaw went on, his voice ringing, “the land calls to me. Land, wealth, adventure enough for a dozen lifetimes. I got to go back, and go back I will, for Texas is a fever burnin' beneath my skin.” He paused and leaned across the table to stare into Thomas's eyes. “I ask you now, old friend. Will you give your sons your blessing to go with me?”

Thomas returned the mountain man's stare for a long moment. Deep in his heart he knew this moment had been due for some time, and now that it had come, he found himself resisting it as he had promised he wouldn't, for had he not left home too, as all young men must? He turned to his youngest. “Well, Andrew?”

“I'm game,” Andrew said, the excitement rising in him.

“And you, Joseph?” Thomas asked. “Your brother, Jason, would be happy to see you in Charleston to help manage Paxton Shipping.”

Joseph stiffened, but kept his temper. For years, his father had held up his twin brother as an example to him. “Jason is a good businessman. I'd never be anything but a subordinate to him and you know it.” He leaned his elbows on the table, and for one so gruff his voice was strangely gentle. “I'm twenty-seven, Father, and if Hogjaw has seen the look of far places in your eyes, I've seen the look of disappointment at having a son who's done naught but shamble through life.” No sign of emotion escaped his face, but his eyes narrowed as if he were looking at something far, far away and indistinct. “You're always telling me I should make something of myself. Well, this is what I've been waiting for. This is my chance. I can feel it in my bones and it's a blessing for all of us. Neither you nor Jason will have to be embarrassed by me any longer.”

True bridled at the way Joseph adressed his father. The tension between the two had increased the older Joseph had become and the more responsibility his twin, Jason Brand Paxton, had assumed in the family businesses. Still, not all the blame could be laid at Joseph's doorstep. The fault was Thomas's too, for he refused to acknowledge that the wild streak that had pushed him to sea as a young man ran strongly in Joseph. And the fact that Jason, unlike his namesake, was suited more to desks and order forms and weights and bank balances shouldn't be held against Joseph.

“What about you, True?” Thomas said, refusing to rise to Joseph's anger and turning to his first-born by Adriana, and the one she would miss the most.

“Texas,” True said, savoring the word. He looked up at Hogjaw, and back to his father. An irrepressible grin lit his face. The air seemed charged with electricity, as during a storm. “Texas,” he repeated, not wanting to hurt Thomas's feelings, and yet already feeling Firetail beneath him and the long road unfolding ahead of him. “It has a ring to it, father. With your blessing, I'll follow Hogjaw.”

His sons watched him. Joseph's face was an indistinct blur in the shadow cast by Hogjaw. Impatient in his youth, Andrew leaned forward expectantly. Motionless, his head silhouetted by the red glow from the fire pit behind him, True waited.

And Thomas Gunn Paxton said a single word.

“Go.”

Chapter IV

On Monday morning, the eighth of September, 1834, two weeks and a day after True had arrived home, he prepared to ride away forever. The sun rose in the normal manner, the birds sang as always. The mares suckled their foals in the front paddocks, and the smell of fresh coffee permeated the great house that was Solitary. True had been up and dressed since the first stars began to fade. In the early morning stillness, he had walked the paths he'd explored in childhood, looked in for the last time on Temper, and then busied himself helping to load Fritz, the huge, dappled gray jack mule that would carry their gear. When all was ready, and as a final, sentimental gesture, he climbed the catalpa tree in the side yard and perched on the limb where he'd spent so many hours as a boy.

They all gathered for breakfast in the large dining room where Lavinia had stacked the table with enough food to keep a small army alive for a month. The atmosphere was confusing at best. Bright chatter one moment was followed by strained silences which no one knew how to break gracefully, and throughout, Hogjaw and his charges stuffed themselves in order not to hurt Lavinia's feelings. When the clock struck eight, they all pushed back their plates and left to go about their final chores, as if they had heard a mysterious signal that had to be obeyed.

In truth, everything had been ready for some hours. The packs had been loaded with spare clothes and extra boots, powder and shot, food, pots and pans, a half dozen bottles of whiskey for trading along the way, and a minimum of personal effects, all easily accessible in order of their importance. True, Joseph, and Andrew had each selected a Kentucky rifle and flintlock pistol from Solitary's stock of arms. These they would carry on their horses, along with a carefully honed knife and hand ax, their bedrolls, and their share of the money they had won racing Firetail.

True slipped out the side door. He could still feel the warmth of Lavinia's parting embrace, still see her ebony, tear-stained face contort with grief as she started to sob and ran back into the kitchen. Joseph and Andrew were standing by the horses and watching Thomas busily making last-minute adjustments to ropes and cinches. “Well?” True said. “We ready?”

Thomas's face reddened. He hadn't needed to lift a finger, but hadn't been able to help himself. “You say goodbye to your mother yet?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

“I was, ah, gonna save that …”

“She's waiting inside for you.”

“Yes, sir.” Every other aspect of leaving was tempered by the excitement of the adventure ahead. This moment, though, was one True dreaded. The front steps seemed too high to climb. His feet dragged. She was in the parlor, her back to him as she sat on the sofa. True paused in the doorway. “Mother,” he said.

Her auburn hair hung to her shoulders, which stiffened at the sound of his voice. The brightly colored print dress was more festive than any he could remember her wearing. She turned slowly and waited for him to join her, then reached out as if to draw him to her, but instead encircled his neck with a chain and amulet. The amulet was of pounded gold filagree, shaped into finely worked brambles clustered about a tree.

“First-born of my flesh,” she whispered. Tears appeared at the corners of her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “Your father gave this to me when we married. It has been in his family for generations, and passes from the first-born son to his wife, and so on. There are those who would say your brother Jason should have it, but it is mine to bestow and I choose you. You are my first-born. The blood of pirates and of gypsies flows in your veins. You will wear the charm.”