by Martha Hix
“Then we’re in agreement.”
“Have you got a name, fellow?” McLoughlin asked.
“Of course. It’s Hatch. Charles Franklin Hatch. Some folks back home in Atlanta call me Frank.”
The Yankee major still didn’t place him. Why should he? The name Morgan, not Hatch, was attached to Charlwood, and Frank Hatch decided this could work in his favor.
That interchange had happened hours ago.
Now, as Charles Franklin Hatch clutched his empty glass, he scowled. How could a man, even a disciple of that son-of-a-bitch Abraham Lincoln, ruin another man’s life, and recall neither his victim’s face nor his name?
The saloon doors banged open and a sorry-looking so-and-so stomped inside. “Where’s McLoughlin?” he bellowed, obviously in his cups.
The piano player’s fingers stilled on the keys. The din of whores and their prey settled to whispers. The bartender, wiping a filthy rag across the countertop, answered, “He left hours ago.”
The drunk mumbled something to himself.
Hatch called to him, “Do you have a problem, sir?”
The ruffian weaved over to him. Hatch got a good look at the scar gouging the hard-eyed face and the evidence of a recently broken nose, and it was all he could do not to curl his lip at the menace as well as the filth.
Bending closer and exhaling an ale-fortified gust of air, the sot inquired, “Do ya know McLoughlin?”
“I do.”
“Where’s he at?”
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that retaliation for something was written on the scarred crags of this face, and Hatch asked, “Did McLoughlin do that to your nose?”
“Damned right. And he stolt my gun. I’m gonna get him for it.”
“Who could blame you for wanting to get even?” Hatch almost felt a kinship with the sufferer. Almost. “Why, I feel it’s my duty as a gentleman to take you to him.” He got to his feet and patted his britches pocket. “Follow me, my friend.”
The fool did as he suggested, stumbling in his drunken state and mumbling something about, “I warned ‘im Blade Sharp would come after ’im.”
“Where are you going, sugar?” the whore asked, lumbering after her quarry.
Hatch pitched her a dollar; she, thank the Bonny Blue, abandoned interest.
There were several men loitering on the street; he led the ruffian in a westward direction, toward the darkened seclusion of the edge of town. As they neared a shack–Hatch knew it was deserted–situated between town and the cowpath, the drunk asked, “How much further, mister?”
“Why, we’re here already. You’ll find him in that house.”
“Whuz he doin’ there?”
“Sleeping, I should imagine–with his pretty blond wife.”
“Near abouts had me a piece o’ that.” Blade Sharp scratched his behind. “Where’d ya say she’s at?”
“Right here. In this house.” Hatch motioned toward the shack’s pitiful excuse for a door, then slipped his hand into his pocket. “Go on. Go, go. Go get your revenge.”
Idiot that he was, the dirty drunk fell for the trick. Letting the cur get a trio of paces ahead of him, Hatch pulled his hand out of his pocket, poised the knife, and let it fly. A garbled noise, not too loud, emitted from Sharp before he pitched face forward onto the ground.
While he divested his victim of a handful of coins, then dragged the corpse into the shack, Hatch gave mental thanks his squaw had schooled him in the art of the knife.
Breaking a kerosene lamp, he poured fuel over the dead man’s body. At the door, he tossed a lit match into the interior. He wiped his hands and pitched the handkerchief into the inferno. Yet he lingered, watching the flames lick the weathered boards of the house and hearing the crackle and pop of it all. Hatch drew great satisfaction from his deed. No one would get revenge against the damnyankee–no one but the beleaguered son of Charlwood.
Once in his newly rented boardinghouse quarters, he shucked his clothing, hung them in the armoire, and scrubbed away any traces of Lucy and that ruffian.
Pulling back the crisp sheets, he chuckled.
“Vengeance will be mine. I will be the one to go after McLoughlin. First, I’ll gain his trust, then I’ll undermine him. I’ll wreak havoc on his livelihood. When I’m certain he has suffered greatly, he’ll know my name and face, and why he must pay for putting the torch to Charlwood Plantation. Then I’ll kill him... just as I did you, Mister Blade Sharp.”
At least I’ll remember my victim’s name and face.
As the Four Aces outfit prepared to pull out of Lampasas three days after arrival, Lisette, radiantly happy and contented, packed the chuck box and noted the buzz of activity around her. A full accompaniment of drovers and supplies were assembled.
She’d added a lot to those supplies. A wealth of goods both edible and not, including several bonnets and the makings for more, had been purchased. She felt somewhat guilty that Gil was obliged to purchase a hoodlum wagon to haul all the supplementaries plus a pair of oxen to pull it. Pigweed Martin, deemed the least robust of the crew, had been assigned to the extra wagon.
There were more additions to the crew. Attitude Powell, a bearded Tennessee mountaineer come west after the war. A polite young man from Virginia, Jackson Bell. Toad Face Walker, who spat tobacco juice wherever he went. A couple of Mexican men, one tagged simply Ochoa and the other a guitar picker named Cencero Leal, had appeared this morning to ask for a job. Already, Cencero Leal had advised her on the making of a fiery stew dish called chili.
One man, from New Hampshire, appeared to be a loner. Deep Eddy Roland kept to himself.
The final addition surprised Lisette. Mister Hatch of Georgia had hired on.
The seasoned members of the Four Aces outfit took their places in the herd, Dinky Peele, Johns Clark, Preacher Wilson, and Wink Tannington at forward flank. Sadie Lou whipped around the herd’s fringe.
Gil called the new drovers together to advise them on what he expected–and what he would not put up with. Each man voiced agreement to the terms, then rode out, leaving Lisette alone with her husband.
He strode over to harness the draught horses, and for once she didn’t protest having help. For some odd reason, she wasn’t feeling up to par.
Inhaling, she asked, “Did I mention I met Mister Hatch the other day?”
Gil nodded. “Peculiar fellow, isn’t he?”
“I’ll say Do you figure he knows enough about the business to make a valuable contribution?”
“He sits a horse well,” Gil answered with a shrug. “The rest he can learn by trial and error. And Hatch seems eager to be of help.”
“That’s true. But he’s such a particular man about his appearance. I can’t imagine him covered in dust.”
“He accepted the job. He’s not too good for it.” Gil patted a horse’s neck. Smiling, he winked at his wife. “Speaking of drovers, now that we’re flush with help, I want to spend more time with you.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “I’d like that. It’s been wonderful, our time in Lampasas.”
“Now that you’ve gotten accustomed to bagpipes and kilt,” he commented wryly.
“Oh, now, you. I only objected once to the skirt and that thing of yours.”
After making certain the crew had departed, he shot her a look that was filled with teasing. “I didn’t notice you objecting to my thing, Lisette.” Striding up to her, he pulled her close and cupped her buttocks with his hands. “Matter of fact, you seem to have a great regard for Old Son.”
“I was referring to your bagpipes.”
“I was referring to this, my sweet.” He pulled her even closer. “What do you think about our Old Son?”
Her hands smoothed up his shirt to curl into his hair. His hat slid lower on his brow as she answered, “I think, Liebster, if you don’t cease and desist, you’ll find yourself kidnapped for the rest of the day.” On tiptoe, she touched her lips to his. “And the herd will have to go on without us.”
“Not a bad idea,” was his low growl.
Practicality won out, though, and Lisette broke the embrace. “We can’t. Not now. But later . . . oh, yes.”
“I’ll hold you to it, angel.”
“As long as you’re doing the holding, Gilliegorm, I–”
“What did you call me?” He whitened beneath his tan.
“Gilliegorm. That’s your name, isn’t it?”
One hand went to his forehead so fast that his hat tumbled to the ground. “How did you know?”
“When I opened your Bible today to record our marriage”–she smiled, recalling seeing her bridal bouquet pressed between those sacred pages–“I found an entry for your birth. Naturally, it had your full name written there . . . Gilliegorm.”
“Don’t ever call me that again.”
“Why not? I like the name.”
“I do not.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because it sounds silly.”
“You’re being silly.” She pressed the tip of her forefinger into the dimple of his chin. “I intend to name our first son after his father.”
“Over my dead body. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to keep my name quiet.”
She cuddled against his solid chest. “Your dead body would do me no good. I want you alive–for at least fifty years. We’ll have to think of another name for a future son.”
“How about Angus, after my father?”
“How about Hermann, after mine?”
“I think, Mrs. McLoughlin, we should come up with different names. When the time is right.” He dropped a kiss on the crown of her bonnet. “For now we’d better head out, honey, or our cattle drive will be a failure and we’ll starve to death. Way before any fifty years is up.”
When she went to take the reins of the draught horses, Gil slid on the seat beside her and took the straps from her hands. “I’m driving, and you’re going to sit right here and do nothing but enjoy the ride.”
“Gil, you’ll spoil me.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Chapter Sixteen
The cedars and rolling hills of central Texas flattened to sparser terrain as the longhorns and their herders moved onward. The Four Aces enterprise crossed the Lampasas River, bypassed the settlement of Hamilton, and forded the river Leon, migrating toward the cowtown of Fort Worth. During their three weeks of travel from the Keystone Hotel, Gil spent a majority of the daylight hours driving the chuck wagon up the cowpath, and Lisette enjoyed every moment of their time together.
Those twenty-one days went without problems, basically. The weather warmed even further, though summer’s heat wasn’t on them yet. There was an abundance of rain which slowed the procession at times, but the creeks were swollen with the water that kept the grasses high and the herd healthy. Naturally all that rain made for an interesting experience, cooking-wise, but Lisette accepted quickly, if somewhat crossly, to the ordeal of keeping the pots boiling.
The new drovers did their jobs well, including the wraithlike Pigweed and the fastidious Hatch.
The only real blight on the trail drive was a concern which had worried her since joining the company: baby calves.
One afternoon, the longhorns several miles to their rear, Gil stopped the chuck wagon to scout a creek for a possible night camp, and Lisette put pen to paper.
April 13, 1869
Dear Anna,
You’ll think me a ninny, complaining after I’ve written glowing reports each day since we were in Lampasas, but, Anna dear, there’s a situation I don’t know how to handle, and if I speak to my husband, I fear he’ll find me unworthy to continue our journey to Kansas. You see, I’ve learned I am quite sentimental when it comes to newborn calves.
They come into this world on wobbly little legs, needing their mothers. It is awful–my husband orders they be left behind as their mothers are herded north. Oh, how the mothers bawl for their babies, and they try to go back for them. Try to, Anna. Try to. Even Matthias goes along with Herr McLoughlin’s orders. Can you imagine this of our gentle Matthias? Be that as it may, I am at my wit’s end, fretting over the youngsters.
I wish I had another woman to talk with. I’ve even missed my mother. Oh, Anna, I miss you, too. Goodness, look at the teardrop staining this letter. What a ninny I am. To tell the truth, I’ve been acting strangely for days now. And I’ve eaten a crock of pickles–you know how I hate them! But all that overeating explains my new plumpness. And I’m overly sentimental about everything. Even the sunsets bring tears to my eyes. It must be the wonders of love.
If you’d like to write, send it in care of the Abilene post office. I’m sure your correspondence will gather dust by the time we reach the place, but I’m most eager to hear from you.
Oh, my goodness, I almost forgot to tell you, I’ve been so busy and happy here lately, but there was an awful fire in Lampasas. A house burned, and a former drover of ours died in it. He was a horrid man, but we are shocked by the news.
Your friend,
Lisette McLoughlin
Lisette sealed the letter the moment her husband returned.
Dusting his hands, he said, “I don’t like the looks of here. Let’s see if we can find a better night-camp.” Again, he took the reins of the draught horses.
For a good thirty minutes they rode along without conversing. Sadie Lou, who usually worked cattle, was taking an infrequent furlough by sleeping atop the bedrolls behind her master. The pungent scent of insecticide –the cowboys, opposed to anything that grew wool, wouldn’t allow anyone to call it “sheep dip”–wafted from Sadie Lou’s nest. Lisette had insisted the dog be bathed and deloused before sharing quarters with them.
The only sounds above the singing of birds and the dog’s snores were the jingle of harnesses, the clop of hooves striking rocks, the gentle neighing from the team of six.
Gil turned to Lisette. “You’re being quiet this afternoon. Not feeling well?”
“I’m fine,” she hedged and patted his muscled thigh; she felt him tense beneath her touch. It didn’t take much to heat her husband’s blood. She smiled, thinking how true her thought. And she decided not to mull over calves and the like. She nudged her shoulder against his. “I’ll be glad when night falls.”
“Why’s that?” he teased, his handsome profile drawing much of Lisette’s attention. “Are you wanting to take advantage of my body again?”
“Could be. I like all the sneaking away from camp we’ve been doing. At night, of course.”
“I miss our nights and days at the Keystone Hotel,” he said, his voice rough with passionate recollections. “God, how I miss them. I can’t wait for this drive to be over, honey. Then we’ll have that honeymoon I promised you. Walking hand in hand along Lake Michigan has more than an air of romance to it, don’t you think?”
“It does sound nice,” she returned breathily. “Does your grandmother live on the lake?”
“No, honey, she’s on the Mississippi. Chicago is on the lake.”
“I knew that.” She paused. “But there are a lot of things I don’t know about you. I know you’re mad for your grandmother, your parents are deceased, and I–”
“Been checking up on me?”
“You’ve told me about your brothers. Andrew and Robert, aren’t they? And they’ve scattered from Illinois.”
“That’s right.”
“I hope someday to meet the entire family.”
“Clan, Lisette. Clan.”
“Why did the McLoughlins leave Scotland?”
“To make a better life.”
A wagon wheel hit a rut, bouncing the occupants, cutting into the conversation. It did nothing for her somewhat queasy stomach. She clutched her midsection.
“What’s wrong?” was Gil’s worried inquiry.
“Breakfast didn’t settle quite right.”
“Breakfast, Lisette? We’ve had lunch already.” He looked her up and down. “Anyhow, you’ve been this way for days.”
“Perhaps it’
s some sort of malady coming on.”
“Honey, I’m wondering if it’s a ‘malady.’ Your breasts have been tender, I’ve noticed. Have you had your flux?”
She blushed. Though it had been easy to talk with Gil lately, she didn’t feel comfortable discussing such things as monthlies, yet she wouldn’t be dishonest. “I haven’t.”
“It’s been over a month, right at six weeks, since . . . Maybe your flow will come in a few days.”
She was beginning to doubt it, since her cycles had been as regular as the changing moon. Too, after being around Monika and experiencing the tribulations of her sister-in-law’s pregnancies, Lisette concluded her queasy stomach and sentimental mood swings could well be attributed to a child growing in her womb. It was a joyous thought, the idea of bearing Gilliegorm McLoughlin’s child.
So joyous, in fact, that her stomach settled down, leaving her feeling moderately robust.
Gil popped the reins. “You’re probably catching a bug.”
“What if it’s a baby?”
“Then we’ll become parents, Mrs. McLoughlin.”
“Will that suit you?” she asked and held her breath.
“Absolutely.” Taking the leather lashes in one hand, he reached to hug her to him with the other. “Positively.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her bonnet. “I’ll be the proudest papa in the world.”
Lisette had never dreamed she could be this happy.
Again she studied her husband’s profile. Though he seemed pleased at the prospects, she couldn’t help wondering . . . “Gil, a while back, you told me your former wife bore a child. Do you feel comfortable enough to tell me what happened?”
His shoulders stiffened. “Comfortable enough? It’s a sordid chapter in my life I’d rather forget.”
“And leave me forever curious?”
He settled a booted foot on the splashboard, and from under the brim of his hat, peered at the ragged plains of north central Texas.
At last he turned his face to Lisette and said, “Let’s go for a talk.”
He helped her down from the chuck wagon, leaving Sadie Lou to her nap, and held Lisette’s hand as they negotiated the hard ground. When she saw the tension in his fingers and in his expression, she regretted asking her question.