Texas Angel, 2-in-1 (81 page)

She couldn’t think straight. Her thoughts were all jumbled. Yet she knew all the hate in Micah stemmed from his father. She knew that was the key to everything. She sat on the stool. Maybe he wouldn’t get so close to her then.

“All I came here for was—”

“What
did
you come here for?” she shot back accusingly. “Did you want some kind of absolution for what you did?”

“I just needed . . .” He dropped down in front of her, taking her shoulders in his hands. “You are the only good thing in my life. I thought if I was with you, it might make me forget who and what I am. Lucie . . . please . . .”

She remembered how in the past she’d felt his desperate need for love. It was there now. He needed so to be loved. And she did love him, but though she could not deny it to herself, she must deny her feelings to him.

His hands were trembling as they gripped her. She tried to ease from him, but he held her firm. Then his hands suddenly moved until he had pulled her fully into his arms. Plying her with kisses, he half carried, half dragged her to the floor, loosening her cape and casting it away.

“No, Micah!” She fought him, but he was heavy and too wrought to respond.

His kisses grew more and more intense, painfully intense.

“I need you so,” he murmured. “I need your love.”

“This isn’t love—”

“No more preaching. No more talk. Hold me, Lucie. Please!” But he wasn’t really asking, nor did he wait for a reply.

“Will you drag me down into that pit of hatred with you? Is that it?” She fought him even harder, especially as her own body began to betray her. How easily she could let herself succumb to him, for she loved him so. Yet she could not capitulate to her desires. It would hurt them both too deeply. Still, it was clear she couldn’t fight him except with words. “Admit it, Micah, I am only another Mexican you will hurt today.” She tried to spit the words out forcefully but could barely get them out because of his nearness.

“What? No! It’s not—” Suddenly he stopped what he was doing. He pulled away, a look of utter horror on his face.

She thought he might be sick again, as he said he had been after his gunfight when he viewed the death in its wake.

He lurched to his feet and, saying nothing, grabbed his wet jacket and shirt. Slipping into the shirt, he went to the stall and saddled the gray.

“Micah, it’s raining.” He had nearly forced himself upon her, yet still she cared. She knew he had not acted out of spite or malice or evil.

He led the gray from the stall. “I’m sorry, Lucie. You don’t have to worry about me bothering you ever again.”

He walked out, and through the open door she watched him mount and ride away, rain and wind pelting him, darkness swallowing him.

CHAPTER

31

T
HE PERSISTENT THREAT OF INVASION
from Mexico continued to hang over Texas. Internal political problems in Mexico spared the republic from a major confrontation, but there was still raiding along the border, and Hays had to take seriously any rumors of danger. One such rumor arrived while he and several other rangers were sick with fever. With forces low, he sent only four to scout it out: Tom, Micah, and two new men, Baker and Lowe.

In the weeks after Micah’s shoot-out with the bandits, he had continued on as a ranger. He had no place else to go, and truth be told, he liked the work for the most part. He liked being needed and useful, although it irked him to no end when the men held him up as some kind of hero for that gunfight. It was worse when regular citizens did the same as tales of his feat spread.

At least in all that time he had yet to be in another gunfight. Mercifully, Hays had mostly used Micah as a courier to carry government dispatches to Washington-on-the-Brazos, the new capital of the republic since Austin had been abandoned during the invasion of 1842. Micah received extra pay for this and practically had the buckskin paid off. He made the payments by depositing them directly into Reid Maccallum”fs account at the bank. There was no need for any personal contact. No need at all.

Except where his heart was concerned. But he did not let himself think of that. If there had ever been a chance to win Lucie, he had destroyed it that night of the shoot-out. How could he have been so stupid? He’d been blinded, he supposed, by his own aching need. She’d been so right. It had nothing to do with love. Or so he told himself whenever a thought of Lucie would creep past his defenses and haunt his mind.

Bandits had been reported along Carrow Creek near the Nueces. And that’s where the four rangers were headed. Micah dreaded the prospect of encountering more bandits. He hadn’t killed Joaquin Viegas that last time, but he felt he was doomed to confront and kill the bandit sooner or later. In a life filled with irony and disaster, that would surely be the greatest of all.

Toward the end of the day the rangers made camp. Tom wanted to stop on high ground so they could have a better vantage, but the others convinced him to camp by the creek. It had been a blistering hot day for the end of May, and they wanted a swim.

Baker and Lowe stripped and were in the water while Micah was bringing the horses down to the creek to water them. Tom was up on the bank getting a fire going. A dozen Comanches were upon the rangers almost before they heard the war cries. Tom had grabbed his revolver and was firing, but an arrow struck him and he fell. The last Micah saw him, he was crawling toward the cover of a bush. Micah heard splashing in the water but did not have time to turn to see what Baker and Lowe were doing.

Snatching his revolver from his belt, he managed to get off a round and wound one of the Indians. Then an arrow penetrated his right arm, jolting his weapon from his hand. The arrow went out the other side, but the pain nearly took his breath away. He grabbed his pistol, also in his belt, then took a shot with his left hand that went wild. Another arrow struck him in the side, and while he managed to pull the arrow out through his back, the pain and sudden loss of blood brought him to his knees. He tried to see what had become of Tom, but he could not see his friend and could only hope he had managed to reach the cover of a nearby mesquite bush. Baker and Lowe were also nowhere to be seen.

Micah tried to reload his pistol, but his hand was shaking too much, and his powder horn fell to the ground. As he fumbled around for it, swaying on his knees, a final arrow struck him in the head, and he fell back into the dirt. He thought about finishing himself off before the Comanches got to him. He drew his Bowie knife and brought it to the vicinity of his heart, heedless of the obvious fact that at the moment he didn’t have enough strength to plunge it into his chest. But before he could make the attempt, blackness engulfed him.

When he came to, all was quiet except for some low voices not far away.

“Them Comanches are gonna come back. Let’s get out of here!” That was Lowe.

“We can’t just leave them,” Baker replied.

“They’re dead, I tell you!”

“But—”

“Lowe . . . Baker . . .” Micah rasped from where he lay. He tried to move to give some sign that he was still alive.

“You ain’t dead?” said Lowe.

Micah couldn’t tell if that was surprise or disappointment in the man’s voice.

“Tom?” Micah breathed, barely able to form words.

“Dead,” Baker said.

Micah’s vision was blurred by blood and pain, but he saw that Lowe and Baker were both dressed now and appeared fairly unscathed. They had probably managed to find cover during the battle.

“Those Indians will be back,” Lowe said. “We gotta go.”

“Horses . . . ?” Micah said.

“Only one left. The rest run off or the Indians got them.”

“We ain’t all gonna make it,” Baker added, and to his credit, he seemed miserable about it.

“Sinclair, I think you know you are a goner. If we try to take you, we’ll all get killed,” Lowe said. He looked more afraid for himself than concerned about Micah.

Micah didn’t blame him. It was just the practicality of the frontier. He was mortally wounded. He could feel the life drain from him as the blood flowed from his wounds. Words stuck in his throat, and he could only shake his head. Let them make of that what they wanted. He wasn’t going to beg for his life.

They carried him to the other side of the creek and left him with a rifle. They mounted the horse and rode off, but Micah did not watch them. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He had cheated death way too often and knew his time had finally come.

When he didn’t die immediately, however, Micah knew he couldn’t just lie there and wait for it to happen. He crawled to the water’s edge and took a couple handfuls of mud and leaves and packed his wounds in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

About a half hour later, the Indians returned. Micah had covered himself with branches and other debris, and the Comanches either did not see him or did not think him worth the effort of even scalping. They rode away.

Though the day had been hot, the night was freezing, at least it felt so to Micah, whose blood loss left little to insulate him from the cold. He dozed off a couple of times but knew he could not sleep or he’d never wake. When dawn came he took the rifle and, using it as a crutch, rose and started walking.He hated the thought of leaving Tom’s body to the vultures, but he had no strength to do anything about it. Half the time he merely crawled, but he kept on the move without sleep or food except for a few mesquite beans and cactus apples. He was fortunate enough to encounter occasional watering holes to sustain him on the way.

Micah headed north. San Antonio was a hundred miles away, and he was certain he didn’t have a chance of ever getting that far. He had resigned himself to the fact that he would soon die. He just knew he could not lie still and wait for that to happen. He could only travel a few miles at a time, then usually collapsed before he could decide for himself when to stop. A couple of times he merely passed out.

He kept this up for four days. When he had the capacity to think, which wasn’t often, he wondered why he was doing this at all. He had no reason to go on. Lucie was lost to him. His friends were dead. Tom! Even Tom. The thought sliced through him worse than the pain of his wounds. Tom had been the only one left whom Micah cared about, and more to the point, the only one who Micah believed cared about him. Now there was no one. He was alone.

Why then was he struggling so to live?

Thankfully he blacked out once more, preventing further rumination. When he came to, the sun was beating down relentlessly upon him, and all he could think of was finding a drink of water. He crawled over miles of rocky earth and was so thoroughly scratched and cut, he appeared to be one large wound. He envisioned a swim in a cool, wet river, the water washing over every part of his scorched and bleeding body. He imagined the prickles of icy moisture getting into his mouth— cool, refreshing drops. He worked his thick, dry tongue over his lips but found only a cracked and swollen surface. No water.

Why wasn’t he dead?

They’re all dead. Jed, Tom. Uncle Haden. Mama . . .

Why not me? I killed them all.

“The wages of sin is death . . .”

Yes . . . I am a sinner . . . rotten . . . dirty . . .

“What do you want from me, boy! I admit I killed your mother. I am
everything you believe me to be. I am a rotten, dirty sinner! I am the worst
reprobate . . . a hypocrite. I deserve your hatred. But I need help. . . .”

I won’t help you, Pa, but I can’t kill you either. I can’t . . . kill . . .

“Don’t be frightened, Micah. This is a good thing. You are not a killer
in your heart.”

You are not a killer . . . Pa, you are not a killer.

Micah shut his eyes against the image of his father’s agonized face, as he always had. But behind his closed eyes that image would not fade. Instead, the face changed subtly into his own! Tears oozed from the eyes—his father’s tears, his own eyes. Or were they his own tears also? He could no longer tell.

“You’re going loco, Micah, plumb loco!” he rasped, shocked that any sound at all could come from his dry, constricted throat.

Using the rifle once more as a crutch, he distracted himself by trying to rise and walk. He took a couple of steps, but the world spun around, and he crumpled back to the ground.

“Die, you ornery critter!” he groaned.

But he dragged himself several feet more. He didn’t know why.

Another night passed. He still did not let himself sleep if he could help it. But sleeping and waking had become blurred. Dreams or reality, he could no longer tell. He spoke to his mother, and he thought he truly had finally died. But something told him his wounds would not hurt as they did if he were dead. His father’s face came often, but Micah shut it out when he could, yet too often he simply had no control over it.

The best times were when Lucie came to him. Sometimes he was able to forget that he had no right to dream of her. Sometimes he imagined they had a little farm and children and love, so much love.

On the sixth day, Micah found a watering hole. It was small and muddy, but he buried his face in it and drank as if it were a crisp mountain spring. Then he passed out.

He awoke to an odd sensation, like a feather gently brushing his face.

“Mama,” he murmured, not knowing why he thought of his mother just then except that the feather was soft and comforting.

His eyes were swollen and stuck shut with discharge so that he could barely open them. But he struggled to do so, because if he was finally dead, if this was the comfort he’d sought for so many years, he wanted to look upon it. He parted his eyelids just enough to see a vague image hovering over him. Not his mother, but he still figured he must be dreaming.

“Stew!”

The mule nudged Micah’s cheek with his nose.

“Ya ol’ churnhead,” Micah croaked. “Ya ain’t as worthless as I thought.”

Maybe it was a dream, but what did it matter? This was a dream to be grasped. Yet the struggle he had to mount the mule was proof it was real enough. He began to think it would have been easier to continue crawling on hands and knees. He passed out twice during the excruciating process, but each time that mule prodded him back to consciousness. Finally, making one concerted effort that nearly was the death of him, Micah straddled the animal. He tried to sit straight, but everything spun so horribly that he nearly fell off again. Leaning forward, he circled his arms around Stew’s neck and laid his head against the animal’s head. In that way, with occasional direction from Micah, the mule carried Micah back to San Antonio, less than a two-day ride. Incredibly, Micah had already traversed over fifty miles of the journey on foot.