by Judith Pella
“You don’t know that, sweetheart.” He grasped her hand in his. “We can never know what God intends.”
“It seems so hopeless!”
“Well, I kind of think it’s in hopeless situations where God shines most. Now, don’t fret, all right? You leave the lad in God’s hands, eh?”
She nodded tearfully.
Then Reid rose. “Maybe I would like some of that tea. You just stay put. I’ll get it.”
She watched her father lumber to the stove and lift the kettle from the iron surface. It had been a trying day for him as well. The two-hour drive to and from San Antonio alone was taxing. In addition to that he’d had his own business to attend to. Maybe it had been selfish for Lucie to insist upon going and being allowed to speak to the ranger captain, and then to slip away and visit the jail while her father was at the bank. Maybe she should have thought before putting her father through such an unnecessary ordeal. Maybe she should have put his well.being before that of a stranger.
Yet she knew a large portion of her father’s surly response was only out of concern for her. She knew he would be the first one to insist upon justice and fairness and mercy. Had she not been involved, Lucie felt certain Reid Maccallum would have been the first man to stand up for Micah Sinclair.
Juana came in just then. “Señor Maccallum, let me get that.” She reached for the teakettle as he brought it to the table.
“I’ve got it, Juana,” Reid said. “Sit and join us.”
“When there is work to be done? You know me better than that, señor.” She chuckled, adroitly taking possession of the kettle as she did so.
Shrugging his surrender, Reid resumed his seat and let Juana continue the task. She filled the teapot with the hot water, took the kettle back to the stove, and returned with a dish of biscuits and a pot of butter.
“So how was your trip to San Antonio?” she asked.
“Tiring,” Reid said.
“Frustrating,” Lucie added.
“I want you both to stay home for a good long time now. No more trips to San Antonio or anywhere.” She lifted the teapot and refilled the cups.
Lucie shrugged, in no mood to argue. In truth, she felt little desire to leave home at the moment. And she had no desire to go to town for a good while, because she did not want to hear stories of what had already occurred or what would occur on the morrow.
Lucie and her father were sipping their tea in silence while Juana was mixing bread dough when a knock came at the kitchen door. Juana let in Pete.
“I just got back from town,” he said. “Thought you might want to hear the news.”
“Come on in and sit down,” Reid said.
“Thanks, but I only got a minute. I need to see to my horse—I came right here.” He glanced at Lucie. “Looks like you’re gonna get your wish, miss.”
Lucie could not tell from his expression if this was a good thing or bad. At least Pete did not seem to be bubbling with happiness.
“My wish?” Lucie asked.
“That kid in jail that you was so worried about? Looks like he isn’t gonna hang after all.”
“Pete! Really?”
Now Pete let escape a hint of his personal view in the matter. A slight grimace twisted his broad tanned face. “He got a reprieve for being so young and for being a hero of San Jacinto. Same with the other kid. I reckon now everyone who was even close to San Jacinto will take this as leave to rob this here country dry.”
But Lucie heard little of the foreman’s diatribe. Micah Sinclair was going to live! Maybe, just maybe, her words had done him some good after all! She wanted to jump up and dance around the room. She wanted to kiss her father and maybe even that old leathery foreman.
Suddenly she thought of something else. Maybe she would see Micah again. When she glanced up from her joyous musings, she noticed both men were staring at her. Only then was she aware of the wide grin on her face.
CHAPTER
10
TRY THIS FOR SIZE.” Tom held out the pistol.
Micah turned the weapon over in his hand. He’d heard of these but had never seen one, much less held one in his hand. A Paterson Colt single-action revolving handgun. A five-shot .40 caliber affair.
“Five shots, no reloading,” Micah murmured. “Hard to believe.”
“Give it a try,” Tom said. The gun was already loaded because Tom had demonstrated how to do it a few minutes before. He had also given a couple of pointers about using the Colt.
They were in a field near the area where a group of rangers were camped on the edge of town. A few other rangers had gathered around to have a look at the newcomers. Micah noted such luminaries as Big Foot Wallace and Sam Walker. There were also a couple Mexicans; in fact, the ranger company had several Mexicans. But these were from the good families, the ones that had fought with Houston.
Tom had set several rocks in a line on the ground in the center of the mesquite. and sagebrush-covered field. Micah positioned himself just within gun range of the rocks. With a quick glance at Tom, as if still uncertain that he might actually have this privilege, he took a breath and raised the gun. He felt oddly calm in the august presence of so many veterans. But shooting was one thing he felt confident about. Biting the inside of his lip, a habit he’d picked up from his uncle, he cocked the pistol to release the trigger, then squeezed it nice and easy. A rock skipped into the air, shattering into pieces. He repeated the process four more times, never missing.
“Mighty fine shooting,” Wallace said in his Virginia drawl.
Micah shrugged at the big lumbering ranger. “Ain’t nothing to shoot at rocks.”
“Yeah,” put in one of the other men, “just wait till he’s got a dozen Comanches breathing down his neck.”
“My boy could take on more than that, no sweat,” bragged Tom like a proud parent.
Micah rolled his eyes, uncomfortable with the attention, yet a cer.tain part of him basking in the praise. He handed the Colt to Jed.
“We gonna get one of these?” Jed asked in awe.
“Only if you got about forty dollars to spare,” said Walker, who was the resident expert on the weapon since he had gone back East to tour Samuel Colt’s New Jersey factory and had offered suggestions on making improvements in the weapon. It was, in fact, Walker’s Colt they were now trying out.
“I hear tell Captain Hays is trying to work out a deal with navy ordnance to get some Colts they have and ain’t gonna use since they have been decommissioned,” Wallace said. “I’m thinking, though, that we do just as well with our flintlocks and percussion caps.” He paused, taking his flintlock pistol from where he had tucked it into his belt. “Truth be told, that Paterson is just a bit too tender for me.”
“Well, you gotta keep the grit out, or it gets touchy,” Walker said, “but these Colts will take over the West one day. You just wait until Sam Colt makes his improvements.”
“So, Jed, you ready to give it a try?” Tom asked. “You remember how to load it, don’t you?”
“Sure, it’s easy.” Jed took the powder pouch and poured a measure into each chamber. Tom had told them not to put in too much powder or the recoil might, in his words, “Wrench your arm out of its socket.” But Tom now looked on approvingly at Jed’s technique. When the powder was in, Jed set a ball on each chamber opening, tamping them down in turn.
“You’ll get faster loading as you get more practice,” Tom encouraged.
Micah had jogged out to the middle of the field and put up a row of new rocks, then he stepped aside and gave Jed the go-ahead. Jed hit three out of five.
Wallace nodded at the display. “Well, Tom, your horse-thieves turned-rangers might just work out after all.”
That was high praise indeed coming from the famous Texan. Micah felt like grinning as Jed was now doing, but he was already suffering under the greenhorn, new-recruit stigma, so he merely gave the man a cool nod.
The rangers were careful not to waste powder and lead, and soon the shooting demonstration en
ded, the men dispersing about to their own business. Supplies and finances were a constant burr in the rangers”f skin. Though theoretically each ranger was to receive a monthly stipend of around twenty-five dollars, few ever saw any money. Some times the government came up with the cash months after the ranger’s term of service was completed, but usually not at all. Sometimes they received land for compensation—one commodity Texas had plenty of. But basically these men simply were not in it for the money. Sheer thirst for adventure or a sense of duty to their country drove them. This was not a job for any man who cared for the comforts of life. Their living quarters consisted of the sky for a roof, the dirt as a floor, and the brush for walls.
They were expected to provide their own equipment and fill their own bellies. However, when there was no pay coming, this became a serious problem, especially when they were too busy scouting and such to hunt. For some time Captain Hays had been keeping the men from his own pocket, thus far, to the tune of some three thousand dollars.
Though Micah was officially a ranger, not much had changed for him. He still had the same clothes, though he had allowed himself the luxury of a bath. He wore no badge or other insignia. But for all the poverty of the other rangers, Micah was much worse off because he lacked the most essential tool of a ranger—a good mount. Or for that matter, any mount. At least Jed had his horse and saddle, though he almost lost it when he nearly admitted to having stolen the beast a few years before. Only a sharp jab in the ribs from Micah prevented that costly error.
Rangers were required to have a horse worth at least a hundred dollars. Many had fine-blooded animals from Kentucky. Their horses were their most important piece of equipment. They often lived or died as much by the skill and stamina of their mounts as by their own. The vast open plains of Texas, often with neither road nor trail, required a good mount. And it was frivolous to even consider facing the mounted Comanches or Mexicans any other way. Micah worried over his lack of a mount, wondering also how he would afford one of those fine revolving pistols.
“You don’t need much besides a horse and a good gun,” Tom assured him. “Rangers travel light, living off the land when we can, starving when we can’t.”
“Just what we been doing for years, huh, Micah?” Jed said.
“That still don’t solve my biggest problem,” Micah said. without a horse he might just as well be without a leg or an arm. And a hundred-dollar horse? That was easily four months’ salary, when the impoverished republic could afford to pay salaries.
Sometimes the rangers had a small remuda of captured horses, but their supply was rather depleted at the moment. The best of the hand-ful of beasts was a broken-down old Comanche pinto that had seen better days some twenty years ago. After the discouraging experience of examining the remuda, Micah, Jed, and Tom went to a cantina in town to slake their thirst. Both Micah and Jed were dragging a bit after a day of firing practice and the other drills Tom felt necessary to get the two new rangers up to par with the others in the company.
Micah was lifting a glass of beer to his lips when a fellow about his own age stepped inside the door that had been left open to let in what little afternoon breeze was there.
“I was told there might be a Micah Sinclair in here,” he said.
Micah swallowed, glancing nervously at his companions. He supposed it would take more than a couple days to shake that apprehension at being singled out, which came naturally with criminal behavior. Tom was suppressing a grin, making Micah feel all the more foolish.
“That’d be me,” Micah finally answered.
“I got something for you.”
“What is it?”
“You gotta come outside.”
Micah studied the young man closely. He didn’t appear to be looking for trouble. With a shrug, Micah strode toward the door.
The stranger had gone to a hitching post, loosened the reins of one of the horses tied there, and was leading it toward the sidewalk in front of the cantina. “This here is yours,” he said simply.
“Whadd’ya mean? I ain’t got no horse.”
“You do now. You’re supposed to look at the note in the saddlebag.” The stranger thrust the reins once more at Micah.
Instead of taking the reins, Micah walked down the step of the sidewalk and circled the animal, finally lifting the flap to the bag. Inside he found the paper, which he took out. “Who’s this from?” he asked as he tore open the seal.
“I reckon the paper will tell all you need to know. I brought the horse from the Maccallum place.”
Micah scanned the few lines on the page written in the fine script of a female hand.
Dear Mr. Sinclair,
I realize nothing can ever properly repay you for all I owe you in saving my life, but please take the gift of this horse as a small gesture of my appreciation.
Yours sincerely,
Miss Lucie Maccallum
Below this was an addendum: This is an official transfer of ownership of this buckskin gelding to Micah Sinclair. R. Maccallum.
Deliberately, Micah folded the paper and replaced it in the saddle-bag. Saying nothing, he continued to stand, now on the street, and contemplate the animal. It was indeed a fine-looking buckskin with a light tan coat and silky black tail and mane. It looked powerfully built, too, though sleek as well, as if it had been built specifically for the needs of a ranger desiring both stamina and speed. And it had a good Mexican saddle on it, too, not new by any means, but broken in nicely. The whole lot was worth far more than a hundred dollars.
By now Jed and Tom had come outside. “Whadd’ya got there?” Tom asked.
“Its from that Maccallum girl,” Micah replied darkly, no gratitude apparent in his tone. “She had a mind to give it to me.”
“Hey! That’s great!” Jed said.
“No, it ain’t great at all.” Suddenly Micah sprang to life. He grabbed the reins from the stranger and swung up into the saddle.
“Where you going?” asked both Jed and Tom.
“I’m taking this horse back, that’s where.” Micah started to urge the animal forward.
“Wait one minute!” Tom called. “Don’t do anything without thinking first, Micah. You need a horse.”
“Not this horse.”
“What’s wrong with that horse?”
“I’m not taking no gift from a woman, for one thing.”
Tom rubbed his whiskered chin. “I see your point. But you still need a horse.”
“I’ll get me a horse myself!” Micah didn’t know where his sudden ire was coming from, but he knew it was indeed anger surging through him now.
“Okay, but how you gonna get back to town once you leave off that animal?”
Micah grimaced at Tom’s practicality, then quickly solved the problem. “Jed, get your horse. You’re coming with me.”
CHAPTER
11
THE TWO-HOUR RIDE TO THE Maccallum ranch impressed upon Micah the probable folly of returning the horse. The buckskin was a better mount than even its looks had indicated. It had taken to a new rider admirably, showing its intelligence and even temper. In fact, as they neared the ranch, Micah could not believe how comfortable he felt on the buckskin. It was almost as if they had been meant for each other. And though Jed’s sorrel was a fairly good mount, Micah found he had to check the buckskin’s pace to let Jed keep up.
By the time they came within sight of the ranch buildings, Micah knew he was making a mistake giving up the horse. But he had also had time to solidify his ambiguous emotions in the matter. He knew a large part of his anger stemmed from the fact that since leaving his parents’ home six years earlier, he had pretty much lived for himself, answering to no one. Yes, Harvey Tate had made demands, but Micah had always had the choice of walking out of the gang.
Now all of a sudden it seemed as if Micah’s freewheeling world was closing in on him. First, he was all but owned by the rangers, at least for a year. All he had to do was mind his p’s and q’s. It would be like being in prison fo
r a year, or worse, being home under the thumb of his father.
If that weren’t bad enough, now Lucie Maccallum was . . . well, what was she trying to do? He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but the giving of that horse made him mighty jumpy. She said it was a gift for saving her life, but in his mind gifts, no matter what the reason for them, just made a body beholden to the giver. And why would she feel the need to gift him anyway? Had she forgotten he had stolen nearly thirty-five of her mustangs? Maybe it didn’t count because he was no longer in possession of the animals, but they were still gone.
He couldn’t explain it. But he was certain she must have some motive. One didn’t give away fine animals just like that.
He rode into the yard of the ranch. A quick glance behind indicated Jed had fallen back quite a bit since Micah had spurred the buckskin into a gallop as he had neared the ranch. Now he slowed, not so much for Jed’s sake as because a female figure was walking across the yard toward him.
He came to a halt a few feet from her and dismounted. “Good afternoon, miss,” he said, tipping his hat politely.
“Hello, Mr. Sinclair. This is a pleasant surprise,” Lucie Maccallum said. An afternoon breeze had sprung up and it was blowing wisps of her hair into her face, and she lifted a hand to push them back, revealing lips parted in a warm, welcoming smile.
He didn’t want to be reminded of how pretty she was, but how could he not be when she was standing so close that he could smell her fragrance, an oddly heady mix of hay and horseflesh and rosewater. Her dark eyes, too, were sparkling in the afternoon sun. And her riding dress, a brown color that perfectly matched her eyes, seemed to emphasize the clear glow of her skin, which had the aspect of tanned ivory. His throat suddenly went dry and his anger was forgotten, as was his reason for coming to the ranch.
He stood there staring dumbly.
“Mr. Sinclair . . .” she prompted.
“Miss Maccallum . . .” He swallowed, finding no moisture in his mouth. The afternoon heat was as debilitating as this beautiful young woman’s presence.