All God's Children

by Aaron Gwyn

  He was wheezing something in the midst of his gasps. She took her foot off him and squatted.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “Lounds,” he hissed.

  “I can’t understand you.”

  “Lounds,” he said.

  She’d never thought about what a bottom lip could do, how a body sounded without it. She decided he was going to make himself understood to her, bottom lip or not and she picked up the branch again.

  But it was too late: the Spaniard’s body started bowing, his skin bursting as he stretched. Both his arms went rigid, his fingers clawing at the air. He began to shake so violently his clothing came to pieces.

  She dropped the stick and stood there. The fire had reached its pitch. She watched the roof cave and embers swirl up into the stars.

  * * *

  She turned her back on the fire and went down toward the stable, following her feet. Not thinking, her brain a dead engine in its box of bone. She stumbled down the bare footpath, moving for much the same reason that water flowed along a thousand courses to the sea. She might as well have been water—her rag of a dress was soaked.

  She undid the latch at the stable door and stepped into the dark, leaving the door open, the moon casting just enough light to see. She passed the first stall where Juan’s horse stood sleeping and when she walked past the second, Honey raised her head above the gate and blinked her black, beautiful eyes.

  Cecelia stood there breathing in the sweet scent. The smell blew her mind awake; the cogs spinning back to life. She tripped the latch on its nail and opened the gate, lifting her cupped palm to Honey’s wet mouth and the horse nosed against her, breath hot as steam.

  “Yes,” she said, “you know Cecelia,” and the little horse nuzzled her like a cat. She wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t prepared for this at all. She’d assumed the pony would have been taken by one of the men, sold or even shot, perhaps. Her chest started to break up and her eyes were leaking. She stroked Honey’s neck, trying to contain herself, but that only made it worse.

  “I don’t know what they did with Robert,” she told the horse. “They could have him anywhere for all I know.”

  A shout from up on the hill froze her in place. She wondered if she’d imagined it. Then it came again, someone up there carrying on. The first thought that came to mind was that Juan had risen to berate the moon, but she shook that away, stepped back over to the door, squatted and peered out.

  The cabin was still aglow in the western sky and as she watched, a shadow passed, a scraggy silhouette against the blaze, then the silhouette of the horse the man led. He began shouting again and she could just make out the words.

  “Hey, Juan!” he yelled. “You, Juan!”

  Then the shadow vanished and the shadow of the horse behind him. A breeze caught the embers and sent them swirling down the wind, the fire leaping, yellow again for a moment, then sinking back to an orange glare.

  She squatted there, watching, amazed at the destruction she’d created. How did she have it in her to do that? After all, it was the white man’s place to steal and destroy, the negro’s to press a cool cloth to the master’s brow once his fit of violence had blown through, perhaps telling him, “You done good, Marse; you has burnt and kilt like your nature says to do,” thinking all the while, Where can I get to that these demons cannot? The Anglo will slash and slaughter, but I will preserve myself in righteousness that I may stand before the Lord and proclaim myself His servant.

  Servant, she thought. It doesn’t please Him to make us servants here on earth; He’d have us bend the knee in Heaven too. Not enough to have us stoop in this sweating life; we’ll bow and scrape in the next.

  Not you, though. Not now. A murderess has no place in Heaven.

  It hadn’t occurred to her to call herself that, but that was the name, wasn’t it? She’d murdered twice and was still no closer to finding Robert or killing Lammons, the man she desired to murder most of all, whose greed had set all of this in motion. So, if her luck held, she’d be a murderess thrice over. She’d be—

  The man appeared again atop the hill, still leading the horse, but there was something in the saddle now, doubled over it, and he led the animal down to the road and started out along it. She watched him out of sight, knowing what this meant, what she’d have to do.

  She worked quickly as she could, saddling Honey in the dark. She had hoped Sam’s horse would be in its stall, but it was only hers and Juan’s piebald gelding. She considered leaving it where it was, but what if no one came for it?

  She stood a few moments, trying to think.

  Then she said, “It’s not your fault. You didn’t pick your owner any more than I did Mister Haverford.” She walked back and opened the door of the gelding’s stall.

  “All right,” she told the animal. “Git.”

  * * *

  It didn’t take long to catch up with the man, on foot like he was, leading his horse. They were still on Sam’s headrights, still in woods she knew. She stayed well back on the path, leaning down every few minutes to whisper in Honey’s ear: “That’s a good mare. Let’s stay real quiet.”

  She worried what would happen when they left the property and reached the road to Bastrop, but they never went that far. In half an hour, the man she followed veered off onto a new trail, cut through the cedars, and after that, emerged into a clearing.

  A cabin stood in the moonlight where there had been no cabin before: just trees and outcrops of stone. The man led his horse toward it. She slid from Honey’s back, took the reins, and worked her way back into the woods. Tied to a low limb. Stroked the horse and whispered to her. Then crept back to the tree line to watch.

  It wasn’t just Juan who’d taken their land. This man seemed to have carved out an estate for himself too. How many other cabins were there on Sam’s headrights now? And in which one was the traitor Lammons?

  The man was now off to one side of his new cabin, digging. He didn’t stop until first light. The sky brightened in the east, and he turned to lean on his shovel. When she saw who it was, she knelt down in the dirt and dug her fingernails into her scalp. Her entire body was trembling.

  It was the man with the dead eye. The Irishman, McClusky.

  He continued digging the Spaniard’s grave. An hour or so passed and another man rode up—not Lammons, but one of the riders who’d been there the morning Sam was killed. This man spoke with McClusky, then climbed down from his horse and took up the shovel. He dug for a while, then passed the shovel back to the McClusky and they went on like this, spelling each other, until yet another rider approached.

  Yes, she thought, I can see how it is.

  They taken Sam’s property and carved it up between them. It wasn’t just Juan and McClusky who’d conspired against them. There was no telling how many men they’d recruited to get hold of Sam’s claim.

  And here now was another, a fourth rider trotting up. He climbed down from his horse and milled about, talking with the others.

  She thought it was only a matter of time. Sooner or later, Lammons would come himself. He’d ride up to join this band of vultures and she’d have them in one place.

  But that didn’t happen. No one else came. They lifted Juan’s body, carried it into the grave, then began to shovel dirt.

  And once their comrade was buried, McClusky turned to address the men. She was too far away to hear what he said—the screen of leaves that hid her dampened the sound as well.

  When he’d concluded whatever he was saying, he went inside the cabin. The other men began to mount up and she thought that now they’d leave. Then she realized they were waiting for the Irishman, and when he came back out, he carried a rifle and there were pistols tucked in his belt.

  It’s me they are looking for, she thought. And I’m lying right here.

  McClusky swung up into the saddle and, snapping the
reins, he put his horse forward and the men fell in behind. In a few moments, all of them were gone.

  She lay with her heart beating against the ground. She couldn’t just wait until they came back, but where would she go?

  You have to follow them, she thought.

  Why would I follow them?

  Maybe they’ll go to Lammons. Maybe they’ll lead you to him.

  Then she imagined Robert. In one of these new cabins hereabouts. Crying for her.

  Or maybe not crying.

  Maybe in a grave himself.

  * * *

  When she went trailing after the riders, it was to keep this thought out of her head.

  And when she caught up with them on a trail snaking through the woods, she saw just how foolish all of this was. If the rider at the rear of the little party happened to turn; if the men happened to hear her horse; if other riders came up behind her . . .

  She kept Honey to a slow trot. She’d push up until she caught sight of the men, then drop back, scared to lose them, scared to get too close, expecting it to go wrong at any moment; moment following moment as morning shifted to noon and the sun reached its zenith then began to cant toward the west.

  Midday, the riders stopped at a creek to water their horses and she sat upwind of them, watching through the limbs.

  At one point, McClusky’s horse raised its head from the stream and looked back in her direction. Her blood sped up and she prepared to knee Honey into a gallop, but then the horse lowered its head and started drinking again.

  By late afternoon, they’d traveled Lord knows how far. She was never good at judging distance. All she knew was that they were headed north and they’d traveled a number of miles. Ten or twelve. Maybe more.

  Then the woods fell away and she saw a cabin in the distance. She steered Honey into the trees, tied the horse, and began walking.

  When she reached the edge of the woods, she saw that a man had come out onto the front porch of the cabin. She’d assumed this would be another friend of McClusky’s, but the way the man was standing told her he was no friend of the Irishman’s at all. He was having some disagreement with McClusky and she thought she smelled violence on the breeze.

  And don’t I have a nose for it? she thought.

  The man on the porch was a stubby figure with red hair and a bushy red beard. He had a dog beside him that would bark and go quiet. Bark and go quiet.

  Do they think he burnt our cabin? she wondered. That he did for Juan?

  She wished she could hear the conversation.

  Then, just like that, McClusky mounted back up, turned his horse, and led the other men pounding out across the pasture, moving to the west.

  By the time I make it back to Honey, they’ll be long gone.

  And so her plan to follow the riders had come to nothing.

  She knelt there watching the red-headed man. He was staring across the prairie in the direction the men had gone, and after a while, a woman came out onto the porch to join him. They stood talking, then the man stepped inside the cabin, and when he reappeared he was carrying a rifle. The woman stopped him and he stood waiting on the porch while she went inside.

  Several minutes passed. It would be evening soon.

  Then the woman came back out and handed him a basket and something about that made Cecelia’s skin tingle. She didn’t understand exactly why, only the basket was curious. The basket changed things considerably.

  And so, when the man crossed the field and entered the woods, she rose to follow.

  DUNCAN LAMMONS

  —TEXAS, 1847—

  That afternoon, I heard the sound of leaves rustling, stepped outside and saw Noah winding his way through the trees, his rifle in one hand and a grapevine basket in the other.

  When he got up close I said, “Becoming such a big success has ruined your woodsmanship, Master Smithwick. I heard you kicking through the trees half a mile away.”

  His face was very grave. He handed me the basket and said, “Thurza sent you all some biscuits and chicken. Might be a pie in there, too.”

  “I thank you for them,” I said. “You tell her I appreciate it.”

  “Where’s Bob?” he asked.

  I nodded over to the dugout.

  He said, “You know a man named McClusky?”

  “I know him,” I said. “He rode in my ranging company.” I didn’t say what all else he’d done.

  Noah said, “Well, him and three other ole boys come to the house this morning looking for you. And it wasn’t a social call, neither. Some neighbor of theirs burnt up inside his cabin and they seemed to think you’d know about it.”

  “I been here with Bob,” I said. “Only people I ever see are you and—”

  He raised a hand and stopped me. “I know you didn’t fire any cabin. I just come to tell you. I think you and Bob ought to light a shuck.”

  “To where?”

  “I don’t know, but these men are serious, Dunk. They figured I’d know where you were and when I told them I didn’t they didn’t seem any too convinced.”

  I stood there a moment, wondering if this story about a cabin fire was true. I’d often thought McClusky might come for me. Maybe he’d decided leaving witnesses to the murder of a white man was a bad idea after all. Maybe the fire was just an excuse.

  Then something else occurred to me.

  “How’d they know to talk to you?” I asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “Trying to track me down brought them to your door—why’d they think to do that?”

  “Well,” he said, “we’ve made no mystery of our friendship. And folks from Bastrop are often in my shop. It would be more surprising if they didn’t come to me at some point.”

  I supposed that was right, though I was having great difficulty thinking it all through.

  “And what about this fire?” I said. “Do you reckon that’s some shecoonery on their part?”

  “No,” he said. “Or, I don’t know. It might could be. It makes no sense why they’d get up a posse on a Mexican’s behalf.”

  “What Mexican?” I said.

  “The man who burnt up. It was a Mexican name.” His brow furrowed trying to recall it, but of course I already knew.

  “Juan Juarez,” I said.

  “You know this man?”

  A torrent began to pour out of me, all these things I’d kept dammed up, thinking it best for Robert’s protection, telling how Juan had joined our company and of his injury in the Indian fight; our journey south to Monterrey. How Juan and McClusky had stepped out of Sam’s cabin that terrible morning.

  When I finished, Noah just stood there, blinking.

  “These are the men who did for Sam,” he said.

  “These are the men.”

  He shook his head. “You and Bob aren’t safe. Will you not consider leaving?”

  “Where would we go?”

  “Something very bad is going to happen. I don’t like this one bit.”

  “No,” I told him. “I’m not just real partial myself.”

  * * *

  I was anxious all that day, near to jumping out of my skin. I kept going out to survey the woods, certain I was being watched. Noah had used the word hunted. It felt like that to me, though there was no evidence as yet, just the birds singing their evening songs, squirrels pausing on tree limbs to stare at me.

  Come dark, I built a fire at the far end of the dugout, recognizing the attention it might draw if McClusky and his boys were indeed scouting these woods, but needing the light to raise my sagging spirits.

  Robert and I ate the supper of chicken and cornbread that Thurza sent, and soon the boy was belly-up on his pallet, sleeping just as soundly as you please. The weight of our predicament slipped from my shoulders. I loved that boy considerably and I wondered how I could best prot
ect him. Noah’s advice was for us to put some more distance between ourselves and Bastrop, but it was all I could do to care for the child with the help of loyal friends like the Smithwicks: how would I manage on the run? And being hunted in the bargain?

  It was a fretful evening, sitting there mulling everything, watching Bob sleep in the light of the flickering fire, his belly poking out the bottom of his little homespun shirt. I thought about Juan. Was it really as McClusky said? Or was the wild Irishman merely trying to gull us into an ambush? I did not know if anything at all had happened to Juan, and if it had, if he’d truly burned to death in that cabin, why was McClusky so certain murder was the culprit and not an untended fire?

  For a while, I’d convince myself they were just trying to draw me and Robert out, rid the world of witnesses, and then I’d think, No. There is a smell of truth to this. Juan has met his end and not by any accident.

  And yet, if McClusky’s story was simon pure, who was Juan’s assassin? It made more sense to lay his death at the door of raiding Indians, but signs of an Indian attack are easily spotted as McClusky well knew—I’d taught him to recognize these myself.

  The longer I thought on it, the more my mind was at sixes and sevens; I hadn’t the least notion what had happened. All I knew for certain was McClusky was hunting us. I climbed down on the pallet next to Robert, took my pistol out of my belt, checked that the nipples were capped, then wedged it down under my thigh, meaning to stand sentry over the boy. Or lie sentry, at least.

  And then, just like those footsore peons at the San Jacinto who Santa Anna had kept up all night building his breastworks, I fell asleep.

  * * *

  When I woke, the fire was down to coals and there was no sound but Robert’s breath beside me. No cicadas, no crickets. My right hand was lying across my chest. I reached for the pistol, but it wasn’t there. My heart came up in my throat and then I felt the barrel of the gun against my temple and heard the click of the pawl as the hammer was cocked.