by Judith Pella
Jacob fingered his moustache thoughtfully. “There are many hiding places in the house.”
“I’ve looked everywhere, even Caleb’s room. There are some locked drawers and such, but only Caleb has the keys, and I know he won’t help me.”
“Well,” Matt put in matter-of-factly, “if Maria had that letter, don’t it stand to reason she would have hid it at her place?”
“Of course! Matt, you’re a genius.”
“I been trying to tell you that,” he replied with a sloped grin Carolyn suddenly found very endearing.
“I guess I was so intent on one track that I just couldn’t get back far enough to see anything else.” Carolyn replayed in her mind that conversation with Maria before her sudden departure. Had she, in her loyalty, hidden away the family secrets—“buried” them in a place she was sure no one would think to look? In her own home?
Before parting that night, Carolyn had one more question to ask Jacob.
“Uncle Jacob, do you think Laban could have killed my father?”
“He was only fifteen at the time.”
“That’s what Grandfather said, but is it possible?”
Jacob recalled his moody, sullen younger brother and nodded. “Perhaps he could have. I never knew what he was thinking about. He was a very closed person. I suppose with me gone, he had a great deal to gain by Leonard’s death. But for a boy so young to kill…I don’t know.”
Jacob and Matt made arrangements to meet the next day. Matt was not to confront Sean, but if he saw him, Matt was to give him a message. Jacob hoped that Sean would know where Laban was and could somehow lead him and Matt to him. They discussed the plan Jacob had in mind, and then Matt accompanied Carolyn down the mountain.
Carolyn was glad for the company, and even more so for Matt’s presence in particular. He wasn’t as handsome as Sean, or as charming, and flattering words did not flow easily from his lips. But unlike Sean, Matt was genuine and trustworthy. She was still in shock to think that Sean had been charming her while all along he was stealing Stoner cattle—in a way, her cattle.
“So, do you think your ma is gonna be in the clear after you show the law that letter?” Matt asked.
“It’s got to help her. I only wish we could find the real killer so she could be cleared completely.”
“Who might have done it? Maybe you could figure it out by the process of elimination.”
“That’s the problem. I’ve eliminated everyone but Laban, and I don’t know how I could get anything out of him if Jonathan Barnum couldn’t. The only other possibility is that a thief broke in that night and my pa, catching him in the act, got killed. But, if that’s the case, then the thief is long gone, along with my ma’s hopes of complete exoneration.”
“If you don’t mind me saying so, Carolyn, it sounds like your pa might have had a lot of other enemies. Any number of folks might have had reason to kill him, from greedy ranchers to disgruntled renters.”
“It’ll be hopeless to try to come up with people like that from twenty years ago.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I’d say when you get home, just sit down and think about it for a while.”
Carolyn smiled. Such reasoning was not exactly her strong point. But that’s the one thing she hadn’t really done yet. If the murderer was not some random thief who had disappeared long ago, then there ought to be some way to discover who it was. She had to find that way.
“Matt, would you help me?”
“Sure. I guess two heads are better than one.”
“First, I want to search Maria’s place.”
“I wish I didn’t have to leave—just when you can really use my help. But I’ll give you a hand with anything else as soon as I get back.”
“Don’t you give it another thought. Finding Laban and clearing up this rustling business is as important as what I’m doing.”
“I did promise to look out for you.”
Carolyn was more touched than irked by his protective concern. She knew he respected who she was and wasn’t trying to make her seem helpless in order to make himself look strong. She had saved Matt’s life, and he had no false conceptions about his own infallibility. “I’ll be all right. I won’t take any chances.”
“I’ll get back as soon as I can,” he said.
“I’ll look forward to that.” And Carolyn found she meant those words in more ways than one.
68
First thing next morning Carolyn went to Maria’s cottage, about a mile from the ranch house on the road to town. Juana was staying at the cottage now, but at this hour she would be working at the main house, and Carolyn would be free to search uninterrupted.
In the one-room cottage, it wasn’t difficult to find an old steamer trunk sitting under the only window. It seemed the most likely place to begin her search. Carolyn chided herself on how easy this was, and on how much time she had wasted simply because she hadn’t taken time-to- think—to reason—all this through. Matt was right; it might be just as easy to find the murderer by such reasoning.
First, however, she’d see what secrets Maria’s trunk held.
Inside was the kind of memorabilia one would expect to find among an old woman’s things. An old wedding dress that Carolyn had to move very carefully out of the way because it was so fragile; a few letters from Mexico; two beautiful rosaries; and an old and exquisite carved wooden crucifix were among the most notable items.
Then Carolyn found a buckskin pouch. She carefully opened the yellowed paper inside the pouch and read:
My dearest sons, Jacob and Laban,
This letter will be the last you hear from your mama. I am sorry I did not have the strength to continue living, if only for your sakes. When you are older and understand such things you will know me for the coward I am. If only I had my faith, that might sustain me, but your father has robbed even that from me. He is completely opposed to the Catholic faith. Once, I carelessly left my rosary out and he made me pay for that mistake later. I must leave you two alone, and that breaks my heart, but the thought of facing another day of life in this house is too much for me to bear. I must depart this life, and, as I hope God will forgive me, I also hope you my sons will forgive.
I don’t know why your father hates me so. I have tried to be a good wife. And now I have also failed at being a good mother. Oh, God! Have mercy on my poor soul, and especially be merciful to my dear little sons, for the only wrong they have committed was that of being born to a violent and hateful father.
In the name of a Merciful God,
Manuela Stoner.
Carolyn folded the letter and slipped it back into the pouch. For a brief moment she entertained the idea of putting it back into the trunk, burying it once more. Could this letter really help her mother? It said nothing about Leonard Stoner. It had nothing to do with Deborah’s life at the ranch.
Carolyn knew the source of her hesitation and knew she should rebuke herself for it. Deep inside her remained a need to protect both her father and grandfather, but especially Caleb, whom she had come to care about—perhaps even to love. Not only would it destroy him if such secrets were revealed about him, but Carolyn had a feeling it would be equally devastating to him for Leonard’s memory to be publicly tarnished.
But how could she defend Caleb when he, of all people, knew what Deborah must have suffered during her marriage? He chose to cover up those truths and allow Deborah to be wrongfully convicted of a crime that she either did not commit or had no choice but to commit.
If only Caleb had been cruel to Carolyn, she might be able to hate him. But he had been fairly decent—stern, but not violent.
Yet Caleb was a cruel man. The proof was in her hands even if she chose not to believe her mother. He had driven his second wife to suicide and had completely alienated the two sons by her. So what if he had a rare tender streak for Carolyn? She could only guess at the kind of treatment she would have received from him if she hadn’t been his beloved Leonard’s daughter.
Carolyn be
gan to replace the other items when her glance happened upon an old book with the word “Diary” across its front. Maria hardly seemed the type to keep a diary. Curious, Carolyn lifted it out of the trunk. Inside the front cover, she found, to her astonishment, the words, “The Diary of Elizabeth Stoner, begun in May of 1841 as we embark on our journey to Texas.”
Eagerly, Carolyn read her grandmother’s account. The ink was faded, but the woman’s handwriting was extremely legible and Carolyn had no trouble. Elizabeth Stoner described the trip from Virginia, calling it “their great adventure.” But rather than being excited about the trip, she seemed resigned. She had not wanted to leave her home and family, but she believed her duty was to her husband and so could not refuse him. The journey, much of which was over unsettled territory, was not easy for the woman who had known only wealth and luxury all her life as the pampered only daughter of a Virginian plantation owner. And there was no reward at the end of the trail, because Texas was a wild and dangerous place. Indians and outlaws were a constant threat. And the inhospitable Texas climate alone had proved daunting to many a hearty pioneer, much less a frail southern lady.
Pages and pages described her misery in Texas. Many times she begged Caleb to take her and their son home, but he would not listen to her. He was in his glory, carving out a living in this virgin land. She made no mention of any abuse by Caleb. In fact, even Elizabeth commented on how he doted on her and Leonard as much as his funds would allow. He built them a cozy house and had many comforts shipped at great expense from the East. But Caleb himself seemed to spend little time in that house. He was gone, sometimes for days at a time, exploring, hunting and, in Elizabeth’s words, “doing whatever it is that amuses men and keeps them from their families.”
Elizabeth mentioned many times how lonely she was. They were miles from another white family. And though Caleb had one neighbor look in on her periodically when he was away, it was little comfort to Elizabeth…he was an old, toothless man and a poor conversationalist. She had no idea if there were any other women in the entire land. Most days she was in tears, and she wrote, that she didn’t know why she continued with a diary that had become so dismal and melancholy. But often the diary was her only source of communication with another adult, even if it was only herself. Leonard was too young to be much of a companion for the lonely woman.
Toward the end of the diary, the tone seemed to change, become less depressing. A traveler happened by the Stoner cabin. Caleb was gone on one of his “expeditions,” but Elizabeth welcomed the stranger eagerly. It had been over a week since she’d had contact with an adult, and she was starving for the companionship. She never mentioned the man’s name, but she described him as a well-bred young man of about her age, and handsome. It was obvious they soon became quite intimate. She reasoned in her diary that for all she knew Caleb might be dead, anyway, so what she was doing might not even be such a terrible sin. She was happy and cheerful, going so far as to comment on how much better Texas seemed when one was in love.
The diary ended abruptly. She wrote how she planned that day to go out gathering some of the lovely wildflowers with her friend; then there were no more entries. Carolyn noted the date of the final entry was April 11, 1843—the year Elizabeth Stoner had died. Could that have been why the diary ended? With her death? But it must have been an abrupt death, for there was no mention of any sickness. There had been some comments on Elizabeth’s fears about being left alone so often out there in the wilderness. Caleb left her with a couple of rifles and plenty of ammunition, and he had taught her how to shoot. But could some disaster have suddenly struck the cabin? An Indian attack, a fire, wild animals, or outlaws?
Carolyn closed the diary and began rummaging once more through the trunk. She found Elizabeth Stoner’s death certificate, but it was dated May 15. Perhaps she fell ill and was too sick to make any further entries. Then Carolyn saw the other date on the certificate—April 11, 1843. She scrutinized the document closer. It was basically a handwritten note written by a Rev. A. Partain on May 15, officially witnessing to the fact of Elizabeth’s death the previous month. Carolyn knew that out in the frontier such lapses of official records was not unusual. The presence of ministers and doctors was so rare that one had to. do what needed to be done without waiting for official sanction. Marriages were often legalized months, or years, after couples began living together, because no church officials were around. Bodies had to be buried without official declaration of death. Even to this day Sam testified to such occurrences. How much more frequent it must have been in Texas of the 1840s.
So Elizabeth Stoner had died on the day her diary had ended. What had happened to cause her sudden death? If only the death certificate could have held such details. Carolyn came upon one rather curious statement by the minister: I hereby give evidence that I have viewed the graves, and testify to the word of Mr., Stoner that his wife is therein interred.
Graves? Was that a mistake? Did he really mean there was more than one grave? Carolyn held the document in front of the window where the light was much brighter. It did indeed look like an “s” at the end of the word “grave.”
What had happened to Elizabeth Stoner, Carolyn’s grandmother?
She was certain the woman must have suffered a violent death. Its suddenness could indicate nothing else. Carolyn sighed. Why should that surprise her? Wasn’t the entire Stoner legacy mired in violence and tragedy?
The discoveries in Maria’s trunk were important ones. Yet Carolyn questioned if they held any importance to her mother’s plight. She had seen enough of courtroom proceedings thus far to have a fairly good idea of how this so-called evidence would be received. None of it pertained directly to Deborah and Leonard. Carolyn could almost hear the prosecutor:
Objection, Your Honor. All this evidence does is call to question the character of Caleb Stoner—but I must remind the court he is not on trial….
Whatever Caleb had done in the past was not a matter for this trial, though Carolyn knew it was something she must sooner or later have to confront him with.
Maria probably knew less about legal proceedings than Carolyn, so it was possible she had, in her ignorance, thought these items might be valid. No wonder she had not been willing to face the results of the revelations the letter and the diary contained. But that didn’t help Carolyn or Deborah. This was a terrible disappointment, to have placed such hope in Maria’s “secrets,” only to find them useless.
With a sense of futility, Carolyn returned her attention once more to the trunk and took all the remaining odds and ends out. Then, replacing each item carefully, she examined them for some greater significance. She was left with only the written material lying on the floor where she sat—Jacob’s letter, the diary, the death certificate, and Maria’s letters.
Carolyn had at first discounted the letters from Mexico because they were addressed to Maria and were obviously personal, seeming to have nothing to do with the Stoners. Yet it occurred to her that possibly Maria had written to her relatives in Mexico about the events surrounding Leonard’s death. These letters that Carolyn held in her hand would only be the replies to Maria’s comments, but Carolyn had no. other resources, and nothing better to do with her time. Besides, there were only half a dozen of them to read.
“Doggone!” she said as she removed one from its envelope. They were written in Spanish.
Yolanda’s lessons had given Carolyn a passable ability to speak the language, but reading was a different matter. She was familiar with a few words on the page but not enough to make sense of the whole.
With a frustrated sigh Carolyn hitched herself to her feet, gathered together the significant items from the trunk, including Maria’s letters, and headed back to the house.
69
She found Ramón mucking out the stable. He made no protest when she suggested he take a break from his work. He washed up; then they climbed a ladder to the hayloft. There they would not be disturbed, and there was plenty of light streaming in thr
ough the loft window.
She told him about Matt’s suggestion regarding searching Maria’s house, and she showed him the letters
“So, all you found are a few letters from Mexico?” he asked.
“A few other things, but nothing that’ll help my ma. These letters are the only other possibility.”
“From Maria’s relatives? How?”
“I thought maybe she might have mentioned something about my father’s death, or maybe even about my parents’ marriage. I know it’s a long shot, but it’s all I’ve got.”
Ramón shuffled through the letters. “They’re all from the same place and, by the look of the handwriting, written by the same person.”
“Would you read them?”
“Sure.” He took one from its envelope and scanned the pages. “This doesn’t seem to have anything useful—”
“Could you read it out loud? It’s not that I don’t believe you, but I can’t stand just sitting here waiting.”
Ramón smiled, then read that letter and two more out loud. They were from Maria’s brother and mostly concerned the health and well-being of his family, with a few added tidbits of local gossip. It seemed the purpose of each letter was to inform Maria of either a birth or a death. Carolyn noted the dates on these letters were spaced several years apart. Checking the dates on the remaining three letters revealed the same pattern, the final letter having been written in 1874. But it was the fourth letter that caught Carolyn’s attention—it had been written in 1866.
“The timing is off,” said Ramón before he started to read.
“I know, I know. Why should I even waste my time?”
“Well, it beats cleaning out smelly horse stalls.” Ramón held the letter up to the light, and began to read:
My dear sister Maria,
I am glad we stay in contact, even if it is just on paper. I would not like to think that we could disappear from each other, never knowing if the other lived or died. It happens too often to our neighbors who have family in America. I thank God every time I hear from you that we learned to write at the church school. You should have seen the excitement in the village when I received two letters from you so close together. I am sorry the first had news of tragedy in the family you serve—ah, but it is a hard land we live in, is it not? Your next letter coming so soon after the first, and having such an odd request, made me very curious. Too bad we cannot talk face-to-face like we used to as children. The Mendez family you asked about was not known to me, but since it seemed an important matter to you, I spent a day or two seeing what I could find. What else is a man to do when he is too old to work? There were, as you guessed, many people from our area who have moved to your part of Texas, the Mendez woman among them—