by Mari Collier
“Is yore sister older or younger than y'all?”
“Older, by a year.”
“Is she pretty?”
Martin hooted. “She's okay, I guess. She's sister. Besides, she's sweet on Tom Jackson.”
Lorenz didn't know who Jackson was and didn't care. MacDonald and Rolfe were hanging too close to the wagon. He might as well jaw some more.
Young James had tired of sitting in the back and was now hanging over the boards waiting for a chance to break in on their conversation. He hated the interloper on his seat. The light breeze kept swirling the dust up and around. If he was up high, he wouldn't have to breathe any dust. He was tired of watching clouds half-form and dissolve in the blue sky. How he longed to be up there beside Martin.
“Is your sister pretty,” asked Martin.
“Ah reckon. Some say so. She's too tall for most men,” Lorenz added.
“How tall is she?”
“Ah reckon about six foot.”
Martin whistled and looked at Lorenz. “I didn't think any woman would be taller than Tante Anna.” He was impressed. “Is she married?”
“Naw, she won't even look at a man. She beat the hell out of one fellow that tried to kiss her.”
Young James gasped. “Your Mama will wash your mouth out with soap if you talk like that,” he declared.
“Sez who?”
Martin laughed. “Young James should know. She's washed out his mouth enough times.”
Lorenz raised his eyebrows. The notion of anyone washing out his mouth went against the grain.
James would not retreat. “She has not! Only twice, and besides, it was your fault, Martin.”
“Young James, shut up!” Martin was not the older for nothing. “We are talking.” He turned his attention Lorenz. “Did y'all live in Carson City for long?”
“Only a few months.”
“I've heard it's a real big place, plenty of businesses, and lots of people pouring in. Did y'all ever go into the mines?”
“Naw. Red knew some of the owners, but he wasn't about much during the day.”
“Is that the fellow that knows y'all didn't kill his uncle?”
“Yeah.”
“What's he do for a living?”
Lorenz hesitated before answering and then decided it wasn't worth lying about. “He owns two cathouses.”
Young James covered his ears at this sinfulness and then had to scramble to regain his balance as the wagon bounced over a rock. Martin turned to look at Lorenz, his blue eyes wide with interest.
Honest? Did y'all go in there?”
Lorenz decided to lie. Rity's arrival and retrieval of his one time visit to the whores was too shameful for the recounting. “Naw, ah didn't. Ah didn't have no money.”
“Are they fancy places?”
“Just the one is all gussied up for the mine owners. The other's for the miners and it's just a long shack.”
“I thought y'all weren't inside.”
“Ah wasn't,” Lorenz protested. “Ah just walked by the outside.”
“I thought the O'Neals were big planters down in south Texas,” Martin prodded.
“The old man is, but Red didn't much fancy fighting in a war that the South was going to lose.”
Martin was dubious. “Are y'all sure he just didn't want to be shot at?” He had a low opinion of men that sold women.
“Hell, no! He's a damn good fighter and one of the best shots around. He just don't care shit for fighting in wars.”
“Uh, uh, Lorenz, y'all keep talking like that and I'm going to tell,” sang Young James.
Lorenz turned around to glare at him. “Just who the hell yu'll gonna tell?”
James edged backwards and pulled himself up over the sideboards. “Hey, Uncle Mac!” he called.
“Little shit,” muttered Lorenz watching the big man draw closer. “Ah'll get yu'll.”
“Lorenz, shut up and sit quiet,” advised Martin. Young James ain't going to tattle.”
“What makes yu'll so sure?”
“If he tattles, Papa will whip him. He's just egging y'all on.”
MacDonald trotted alongside of the wagon. “And what do ye want, Young James?”
“Can I have that ride now, Uncle Mac? You promised.”
“Aye, that ye may. Martin, ho up.”
Martin pulled the team to a stop. Lorenz clenched his fists. If the big man came toward him at least he'd have one swing.
MacDonald's long arms swung out, lifted James up and over the wagon, and then settled James in front of him. “Ye can guide Zark for a while, Young James.” James threw a triumphant grin at the two left on the wagon.
Martin lifted the reins and smacked them down. “Hi-yo-up!” He smiled at Lorenz. “See, I told y'all. Young James knows better than to tattle.”
Lorenz let out his breath. “Ah swear ah'll kill that big son-of-a-bitch iffen he lays another hand on me.” His voice was flat and vicious.
“Y'all crazy? Besides, y'all ain't got no right to talk like that about Uncle.”
“Ah'll kill him just like ah did Zale.” The words ground out.
“Lorenz, he's a damn good man, and married to your mama. What would she do without him?”
“She'd probably be better off without that big bastard.” Lorenz was certain of it.
Martin shook his head. “Y'all can't talk about Uncle like that.” His voice was becoming set.
“What are y'all going to do, tell?”
“No, but by God, I can make y'all take back those words.” Contempt laced through his voice. “Guess I made a mistake about y'all.” He retreated into silence, his eyes fixed on the horses and the road.
Lorenz was glad to sit there and think. Martin must be like all the others: full of nothing but horseshit. He knew how men treated women. There hadn't been any privacy in Zale's camp. What little he'd seen of men being polite to women was in town among a group of people to avoid talk. Rity was just bigger and smarter than other women. She didn't need a man. Maybe she could get Mama away from the big bastard. Nobody ever stopped Rity from doing what she wanted; not even Red. He watched Rolfe swing his horse towards MacDonald. They were probably going to confab. The two men had dropped farther behind, but were still too close to make a break. Dandy was tied to the back and it would take time to untie the reins. He didn't need a saddle as he could always steal one later. He settled back. He had four days. In a way it had been fun talking with Martin. It was the first time he'd ever really talked with anyone near his own age. If things had been different, maybe Martin would be his friend. Lorenz considered that. Other people had friends, but he never knew how. Maybe he could mollify Martin. Trouble was, he didn't know how to do that either. The wagon jolted to a stop.
“Piss call,” said Martin and stepped down.
Lorenz swung around in the seat. Rolfe was relieving himself, and the big bastard had turned his horse to show Young James something in the distance. “Good idea,” he said to Martin and left the seat with a leap.
He'd be in plain view, but neither man had a rifle in hand. Damn careless. He slipped the hitch and jumped on Dandy. He could hear them yelling as he dug his heels in. First they would have to get Young James off MacDonald's horse. He figured they wouldn't shoot him, just yet. He had no rope, no saddle, no gun, no knife, but by God he had his freedom, and he knew just how to run with another chasing. So hi-ya, Dandy, lift them legs. Big Bastard was too big and too heavy. He couldn't catch him on Dandy even if Dandy was past his prime. He stretched out and let Dandy run, automatically calculating the distance. One mile at a hard run, then trot, then run, then trot, and then worry about hiding your tracks.
When he pulled Dandy up to look back, his jaw dropped. MacDonald was still in sight. That big horse of his was cutting away at the distance. He gauged how much time separated them. Naw, let Dandy walk for a while. He had time.
He kept Dandy at a trot. His eyes raked the landscape near the road and towards the hills to the northeast. He reckoned the distance
to the hills, but it was too far with the land so flat and open. The other side of the road wasn't any better as it was cut by the river the road more or less followed. The banks here were too steep for Dandy to go over and it might spook him to push it. If he knew the country, where the river turned, or where a ford was, he'd cross. Right now, it was best to wait for better terrain. He twisted in the saddle for another look. MacDonald was walking his horse now. Lorenz half-hoped the big bastard would have pushed his mount into a punishing gallop, but then in this heat it might wear Dandy something fierce, and he did not want to steal a horse. The law might look the other way at swiping food or a pair of britches, but a horse was a definite ticket to hell. Lorenz kept a firm hand on Dandy and when time and distance demanded, he kicked him into another run.
He had but one advantage: weight. He kept the run, trot, walk sequence going twice more. When he pulled Dandy to a walk and looked again, a curse burst from him. MacDonald was rapidly closing the distance, not bothering to slow his brute of a horse, cutting the remaining ground to yards. Lorenz kicked his heels into Dandy's sweating flanks and headed for the river. It was now or never, and never wasn't looking too good.
He chose a spot where the bank seemed to flatten and slid off to lead Dandy down the loose incline. Once on the level ground, he realized his mistake. The bank on the other side was too steep and too sandy. He glanced up river and saw the cut on both sides where there was a natural fording area. He threw himself on Dandy and headed towards it. He was too late.
MacDonald rode down the cut and met him at the ford. Lorenz glared at MacDonald to cover the sick feeling rising in his stomach. The man's face was set and grim; all humor was gone from the wide mouth and dark eyes.
“Ye twill dismount,” came the command.
Lorenz remained seated on Dandy.
“Dismount or I'll knock ye down.”
Lorenz hit the ground on the general theory that since he had survived Zale's beatings, he would survive this one too. He stood beside Dandy, slackening the reins and letting him drink. He could hear MacDonald remove his saddle and talk soothingly to his horse while he did so. Why didn't the big bastard say something to him?
MacDonald let his reins drop and emerged on the other side of Dandy toting his saddle on his shoulder. The saddle must have been crafted for him alone as no other man would sit in it comfortably. “Tis yere horse trained to ground reins?” he asked.
Lorenz kept his back turned and refused to answer. A big hand grasped him by the neck and shook him like a puppy dog. “Answer me aye or nay with a sir after it.”
He spat the words out, “Yes, suh.” His neck was burning and his head felt like his brains had shifted.
“Goodie, now ye walk towards that downed log resting on that boulder.”
They tromped towards the log, MacDonald's one hand gripping his shoulder, the other steadying the saddle. After placing the saddle on the log, MacDonald addressed the stiff figure. “Do ye remember what I said would occur when ye broke the rules?”
“Huh?”
“What did I say I would do if ye broke my rules?”
Lorenz began to breathe easier. “Yu'll said yu'll would use a belt.” At least the man might not use his fists.
“And how many times?”
Lorenz began to think the man crazed. “Five,” he answered.
“Aye. So ye did listen. Now, yere belt or mine? Bear in mind that mine measures a good two inches across.”
Lorenz took a deep breath. “Mine.”
“Take it off and hand it to me.”
“Mr. MacDonald, go to hell.”
He heard the man yank his belt off. “Drop yere britches and bend.”
Lorenz stood where he was. The hell if he'd help the man. A hard arm wrapped around him, the free hand unbuckled the belt, worked the buttons, and then slipped the trouser down the skinny flanks.
“Now bend.”
Lorenz felt his knees give where MacDonald dropped his weight against them and at the same time gave a not-so-gentle shove to the back of his head. Like it or not, he wound up sprawled over the log, his hands grasping at the rough bark to pull himself up as he heard MacDonald's voice.
“One,” and the belt bit into his butt. “Two, three, four, five. Stand.”
Stunned, it took Lorenz a second to gather his wits and comply. He yanked the britches up to cover himself. As he was stuffing the shirt into the pants MacDonald continued to speak, his voice steady, broking no interruption. “That twas for disobeying me, for touching yere beastie, and for running. The next time ye break the rules, I twill ask ye what ye have done wrong and I twill have an answer from ye. And remember, when ye break the rules, ye have disobeyed.”
MacDonald finished buckling up and looked at Lorenz. “Do ye have any questions?”
“Yeah, why the hell did yu'll bother with pulling my pants down for that? Yu'll just want to see my butt?”
The blow set him down on the log. “I said questions, laddie, nay insults. And the next time it twill be six, then seven, till we reach ten.”
Lorenz retrieved his hat. “Yu'll figure ah'm gonna run agin?”
“Oh, aye, since ye ran from yere sister and O'Neal, ye twill try running from me.” MacDonald gave a slight smile at the surprise on Lorenz's face. “Next time ye may plot a bit more carefully now that ye ken extemporaneous flight twill get ye nay.”
Lorenz's face and grey eyes went blank.
“Ye dinna ken my words?” MacDonald sighed. “Laddie, do ye have any idea of what I have just said?”
“Hell, no! Not yu'll, not Martin, not anythin' that's been said or happened since ah rode into town.”
MacDonald's sternness faded, his dark eyes softening. “The word I used, it means spur of the moment. Ken means to understand.”
“The why don't yu'll all use them words?”
“'Tis the way my people speak. Ye twill have to adapt; become use to my ways. Now we twill rest awhile.” He led the way to a stand of willows, his hand propelling Lorenz in the direction of the shade. Out of the sun's glare, he released Lorenz, pulled his rifle from the scabbard, put the saddle down, and sat, crossing his legs Indian style.
“Sit, laddie. Tis shady here and the horses need to cool down.”
When Lorenz remained standing, a long arm swung out and caught him behind the knees, dumping him on the ground. The man extracted a pipe and makings and became busy tamping the tobacco.
Lorenz tucked his legs and asked, “What kind of horse yu'll all got anyways?”
“Tis part Morgan and part Thorough Bred. He tis nay cut and hopefully with the right mare twill breed me another like him.”
Lorenz picked a willow branch and chewed on it, contenting himself with smelling the aromatic smoke rising from the pipe. He watched the coots that were flocking back to the river bank now that the horses had drunk their fill and he eyed the big, black stallion. Like its owner, it seemed a brute apart. How in the hell was he supposed to know something that big could move so fast? “Yu'll name him?”
It was as if the months of no human contact now compelled him to talk, to once again be part of the human community. Besides, he had to figure this man out: To probe for his weaknesses, his blind side. Even when he considered everything that had happened, MacDonald's voice held a kindness that he had not heard in Red's voice. Red's voice and actions always implied there would be a reckoning, a calling in of favors owed. Lorenz doubted that there would ever be a way he would be of any use to MacDonald. It didn't seem possible that the man even wanted him around, let alone take him home. Lorenz had enough savvy to know that white men and women were peculiar about who came into their houses: peculiar to the point of being picky.
“Aye, he tis my Zark,” answered MacDonald.
Once again, Lorenz was hearing a word that meant absolutely nothing. What the hell kind of name was that? His eyes tightened against the sun and he idly rolled some pebbles in his hand. Two canvasback ducks had jostled the coots away from the bank with a great
deal of squawking and ruffled feathers. “Yu'll gonna take those for eatin'?” He was hungry for meat, any kind.
“Nay, friend Rolfe does the hunting when we travel together.”
“Why?”
“Because he tis a better hunter than I.” Like Martin's speech, the words were calm and factual, showing no jealousy that a small man would be more proficient. “We nay e'er kill more than we can eat.”
Lorenz turned to look at the huge bulk sitting so contentedly. He thought of the times he'd come across some bank where below mounds of rotted buffalo remained from an Indian kill or the birds lying on the ground where some sharpshooting man had proven his aim. There had been times when Zale's gang had simply shot and shot at cranes going through their wild dance. What difference did a few birds make? But he had no words to form his questions about a difference in philosophy. He wasn't even sure he wanted to hear the answers. The man might tack another rule onto the others. He gave up on talking and watched the river, listening for any sound that would tell him that things were changing.
MacDonald stretched out on the ground, his rifle across his chest lengthwise, his finger on the trigger, trapper like. “I'm going to rest a wee deeper. Dinna move while I do,” he suggested and pulled his hat down over his eyes, effectively blocking out the light.
Lorenz looked at the man. Had he heard right? The big bastard was going to take a nap. Shit, it was a test to see if he stayed put. The man's sweat soaked shirt was drying in patches, leaving salt-stained rings in odd patterns. An odor exuded from the man different from any Lorenz had ever smelled. It wasn't white, Indian, Mexican, or black. What was it? It invaded the senses and sent warning signals like, like something so different it began to raise the neck hairs. Lorenz jerked, drew his breath in. Damn, he was getting jumpy. Bad as a dog or a horse that smells a panther for the first time.
He eyed the horses. They were standing there, waiting, and swishing their tails against the heat and the flies. If he could get to them, take both, he wouldn't have to worry about pursuit for days. Rolfe wouldn't leave his sons and money, and MacDonald was sure as hell too big for Rolfe's horse. That wagon was back there somewhere, getting closer. MacDonald's chest was moving slow and easy. He'd wait awhile and then stand real cautious like. All he needed was a few feet to be away. Maybe he'd even look in on Mama. Nobody would think he'd do that. He sat very still and listened to a scrub jay screeching and scolding. A light breeze stirred the willow leaves and a low snore escaped from under MacDonald's hat. Lorenz waited for his breath to even out again.