Gather The Children (Chronicles of the Maca Book 2)

by Mari Collier

  Do you remember him and Gerde? They have been praying for your safekeeping also. They lost their little Hans in the typhoid plague of '57-'58 and have not had any more children. Your grandfather Schmidt is in good health. He and his wife, Johanna, have eight children.

  The closest town to us of any size is Arles, Texas. Let us know when you are coming, and we will meet you there. Send any letter to Schmidt's Corner, Texas. It will take time, but it will arrive.

  My darling, my heart, I cannot wait to have my arms around you again.

  Your loving mother,

  Anna Maria MacDonald (nee Schmidt)

  Rita stared at the paper, remembering her mother's handwriting, the lessons and practice sessions. The memories of her tall, slender, dark haired, grey-eyed mother smiling at her went rolling through her mind: the cooking lessons, the care of laundry, and the help with her catechism lessons. It was a place where everything had seemed safe, warm, and loving.

  She stood and mentally reviewed everything that needed to be accomplished before she left. Her mother may proclaim that MacDonald a good provider, but inwardly she wondered. The men stopping at the Player's Palace and reports from Red indicated that Texas was as beaten economically as the rest of the South.

  Rita went into the dining room and opened the top drawer to the credenza and pulled out two sheets of paper. First she would answer her mother and then send Red another telegram. She would be leaving the first week of August whether a replacement was here or not.

  Nature, genetics, and the year of her birth had all conspired against Margareatha. She stood six foot tall when most women were barely five foot. A century later, men would say, “She has big boobs.” Now they said, “She is a fine, full figure of a woman,” with the same awed look on their faces. Her height and intelligence frightened men. Few were bold enough to really talk with her, but all welcomed the chance to beat her at cards. Had they known she could also read their minds and see an image of their cards displayed in her mind, she probably would have been hounded out of town or burned as a witch. She did not care. The cards provided her with an extremely good living. It was Red's whorehouses she detested. It was impossible to fathom why the women stayed, and she felt no compassion for them.

  The Postmaster looked at her in surprise when she entered the second time in one day. It was close to two o'clock, and there were few people. She handed him the letter, properly addressed and sealed. “It'll go out on the next stage, ma'am.” She nodded, spun, and walked out to the railroad depot.

  The depot was as empty of people as the smaller building she had just left. She saw Mr. Miller coming out of the telegraph office, hat in hand, and she stepped into his path.

  “Good morning, Miss Lawrence. I was just on my way to the bank, but I'll be happy to send something for you.” He opened the door and practically bowed her in. Rita tried to keep the contempt off her face and was partially successful.

  The same young boy she'd tipped so lavishly the month before was seated at the key. He jumped when he saw them and almost bowed to her, and her face softened as she handed over the note for Red. Miller read it, grunted, “Humph, ten words, one dollar, please.”

  She paid and turned to leave as Miller spoke again. “Uh, Miss Lawrence, we truly will be sorry to see you leave.”

  She spun and glared at him. “That information goes no further than this room.”

  “Of course, ma'am, I was just voicing a personal opinion.”

  She nodded and hurried out of the building. It was stuffy, hot, and confining. The outside wasn't much better, but at least there was fresh air.

  Chapter 16: Gerald

  Marshal Franklin looked up as three men and a kid walked into his office and realized one was the huge form of MacDonald. Next to the big man were two young men wearing guns. For a moment Franklin thought he was seeing double and realized one was a tad taller and sported a trim mustache. While the two look a-likes might be considered men out here, the straw-headed one was still a kid. He didn't want MacDonald to think he'd slacked off on his job. “As y'all know there are no charges against the youngest. I see y'all gave his guns back.”

  MacDonald smiled. “Aye, we ken about the false charge, and he tis a responsible laddie. Marshal, this tis Mrs. MacDonald's eldest, Daniel Hunt, and a laddie named Chalky. Chalky tis trying to locate his mither, his brither, and his sister. Their place, about two days ride from here, tis burned and nay are around.”

  Franklin sat back. “That would be the Plank's place. We don't know who's responsible. When we got there, the woman and the little girl were dead, and the boy can't talk.”

  Chalky's face now matched his name in color. “Whar's my brother?” he managed to blurt out. “And he does too talk.” He looked at MacDonald.

  Marshal Franklin sighed. He had wondered how MacDonald would spoil his day again. “We placed him with one of the small holdings outside of town. We're not big enough for an orphanage, and there he stays. Unless, of course, you have enough money to prove you can be responsible.”

  Chalky wasn't quite sure what the man meant except that he had to have money to get his brother back. He pulled out the five dollars that MacDonald had paid him for being the wrangler and showed it. He might not be able to write, but he had a way with horses, and he still had his job at the Schmidt's when they went back. “Ah's got money.” For once in his life, Chalky sounded belligerent. “My Ma'am 'spects me to take care of him an' ah's gots a good job, don't ah, Mr. Mac?”

  Franklin doubted it as he watched MacDonald rocking back and forth on his heels and rolling his tongue around in his mouth. This could be a good day.

  MacDonald looked down at Chalky's earnest face and said, “Why dinna we pay a visit to this place and see if yere brither has a good home? Then ye can decide which would be best for yere brither.” He looked at Marshal Franklin.

  Franklin hunched his shoulders and leaned forward. “I don't think you all need to disturb those good folks. They were kind enough to take the dummy in.”

  “He ain't a dummy. Ah doant know what yu all mean. He can too talk!” Chalky looked at MacDonald. “Ah gots to see him for Ma'am's sake.” He had broken down at the shell that had been their home and had accepted the fact that all might be dead. Now he knew his brother needed him, and he became as stubborn as the mules he could control when no one else could.

  MacDonald considered. “Marshall, I'll have to agree with Chalky. The men who murdered the woman and young girl are the same ones that tried to kill Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt. Chalky was able to get away and gave us the warning. I believe ye have my letter on that incident.” When Franklin nodded, he continued. “So if ye twill be kind enough to give directions, we'll take a look. We owe that to Chalky's family.”

  Franklin considered and then shrugged. If they took the dummy, the county wouldn't have to pay for his keep, and Franklin would be able to take credit.

  “If there's trouble, I expect you all to obey the law.” He set his face and watched MacDonald. It was best to ignore the two young men. They looked like hard cases in the making.

  “Aye, tis something I do.”

  “It's the last place on the edge of town as y'all ride out to the fort. The people there are the Quincy's. Remember, no trouble.” Franklin sat back with a certain amount of satisfaction as they clanked out. He'd heard the cavalry was being moved come spring, and Rolfe and MacDonald would have nowhere to sell their beeves.

  They pulled their horses up at a ramshackle place badly in need of paint. The front yard was dry and brown, but they could see a young boy busy hoeing in what was left of the garden. MacDonald put a restraining hand on Chalky's reins and bellowed out the greeting. “Hello, the house.” The kid with the hoe didn't even look, just kept working.

  An unkempt man with thinning, brown hair came slouching out of the house holding a shotgun in the crook of his arm. His hair was lifting in the breeze and his canvas trousers were dirty and patched. It was difficult to determine the original color of the dingy, faded, co
llarless shirt he wore over his skinny frame. “Yu all lookin' for someone?” His gritty voice was peevish as though he had been taken away from something more important than Yankees in his yard.

  “My name tis MacDonald, and young Chalky would like a word with his brither to see how he tis faring.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “That dummy cain't talk, and he's faring jest fine. Get off my property.” He started to raise the shotgun when a gun exploded and the twisted metal fell from his hands.

  “Lorenz, put the gun away.” MacDonald's voice was calm. He had not even looked around, but kept his eyes on Quincy. “That twas a mistake. Ye should nay have raised that shotgun.”

  Chalky's eyes were wide, and the young boy had dropped to the ground, his back still towards them. Chalky looked at MacDonald.

  “Go get your brither, Chalky. He goes to House with us.” MacDonald looked at the man in front of him.

  “Yu all ain't got no right!” The man was screaming, holding on to his aching arm. “Yu all jest ruined my damn gun. Yu all owes me!”

  “We owe ye nay. I twill inform Marshal Franklin that ye pulled a shotgun on us. Lorenz, would ye retrieve it for us.” He kept his eyes forward and saw Chalky pick up his brother. The boy wrapped his arms around Chalky's neck and his legs around Chalky's waist. MacDonald could see the gashes and old welts showing through the boy's tattered clothes. “I twill also inform the Marshal that the laddie is nay longer here, and ye canna collect from the county.”

  Quincy started to say something, saw the hard look on MacDonald's face, and changed his mind. He watched glumly as they rode out vowing someday to get even.

  Five days later, MacDonald, Rolfe, Chalky, and Gerald clattered into the Schmidt's back yard. Rolfe was there to pick up his younger son, and MacDonald because he had promised Chalky. Gerald still hadn't said a word; not on the trip home and none to Anna. Lorenz swore he heard the child whispering one night, but no one else but Chalky believed the boy would talk again. “Sometimes it happens like dot,” Rolfe opined.

  James flew out of the garden and greeted his father as they dismounted. They entered the kitchen after knocking. Gerald wouldn't let go of Chalky's hand, and Chalky kept up a monotone about how good the Schmidts were and how good Mrs. Schmidt cooked. Gerde busied herself pouring coffee while the men shook hands, then she put her hands on her hips and stared at the child. Gerald immediately buried his head into Chalky's side.

  “Herman, your boy has done very well on the German and Latin, but we need to keep up the lessons if he is to make it into Concordia when he's eighteen,” Kasper was saying. He was trying to ignore the child, fear making his stomach turn. He could not bear the thought of Gerde dealing with a child and knew he would be turning this one away. Chalky stood patiently waiting his turn once MacDonald explained everything as he knew MacDonald could resolve all things.

  Gerde took matters in hand and moved forward. “What's this?” Her face was set and grim and her eyes bored into Chalky's.

  Chalky gulped and blurted out. “He's my brother, and ah'll take keer of him, and he can bunk with me, and he won't be no trouble 'cause ah'll work fer nothin' here, and Mr. Mac says ah can run the remuda when we trail cattle agin, and he doan eat much.” Chalky's voice petered out. It was the speech he had memorized over and over. Then he remembered the part he left out. “And ah've got money left, and ah'm goin' to buy his clothes right here from yu all, and he won't be no trouble.” Once more Chalky fell silent.

  Kasper cleared his throat in preparation to speak, but Gerde asked Gerald a question first. “And what is your name, and how old are you?

  Gerald kept his face buried in Chalky's side. “His name's Gerry, short fer Gerald, and he cain't talk since they kilt our Ma'am, and ah ain't sure how old he is. About seven or eight, ah reckon.”

  A look of horror swept over Gerde's face. “He vas there when it happened?”

  “Yas, ma'am.”

  Gerde went down on her knees in front of the boy. “I'm so sorry, lieb. I did not mean for my words to hurt you. Of course, you may stay here. We have plenty of good food and a bedroom upstairs. We have clothes just your size and Mr. Schmidt can teach you how to read and write. Then some day we will go back and visit your mother's grave.”

  Gerald was staring at her, and Gerde smiled back, warmth rising in her eyes as she held out her arms. Gerald put his arms around her neck and began to cry, sobs racking the thin body. Gerde stood making crooning noises and carried him into the living room to the rocking chair, and then sat with him on her lap.

  Kasper looked at the men and said, “Gerde smiled.” His voice was awed. He turned and hurried after her.

  Chapter 17: The Daughter

  Lorenz headed towards the house carrying the evening's pail of milk. Daniel was helping Papa feed the stock. Nothing ever convinced Daniel that he should milk a cow. Lorenz was surprised to discover he didn't mind. Maybe Grandpa's Schmidt's clod buster ways were in his blood. Daniel, at least, no longer attempted to raze him about anything. Not since that first week.

  It had happened one morning after they'd been working on gentling the mustangs that had left Lorenz with an aching shoulder and a cramped leg. Daniel was easily the best horseman. His years with the Comanche had given him a background with horses that most white men didn't possess. Daniel swung the saddle over the new tree and remarked, “Well, little brother, it looks like you need a few lessons on how to sit a real horse, not that dandified old nag you claim as your own.”

  “So you ride better than I do, so what?” Lorenz shrugged and instantly regretted the movement. He must have landed harder than what he'd thought.

  Daniel grinned at him. “Lots better,” he agreed. “In fact, I do it all better. I'm four years older, remember?” He looked out the open doors at MacDonald adding water to the tank. “What were you two doing early this morning? Practicing to fight?” There was almost a sneer in his tone.

  “Papa was teaching me some moves.”

  “It looked more like you were dancing.”

  “It's all in how y'all control the muscles.” Lorenz started to turn away. It seemed Daniel was on the prowl for some reason.

  He didn't move fast enough. “Like this?” asked Daniel and stiff-armed him in the chest, grinning like he fully expected Lorenz to fall or at least stagger backwards. Lorenz felt the anger rise and the next thing he knew they were on the barn floor, and he was on top of Daniel slamming first one fist into Daniel's head and then the other.

  Daniel tried to move, but his head was swimming and his arms, body, and legs felt leaden. The blows stopped as suddenly as they began. Daniel propped himself up on one elbow and shook his head. For a moment his vision blurred and he realized one eye was swelling shut. He could see MacDonald's body blocking the light coming in the open doors, and he was holding a kicking, arms and legs flailing Lorenz.

  As soon as Lorenz quit struggling, MacDonald set him down. Then he knelt beside Daniel and asked, “Are ye all right?”

  “Yeah.” Daniel pushed himself up, and MacDonald gave him a hand, steadying him as they stood.

  “Who started this?”

  Lorenz was staring at them, his eyes a hard, cold grey. His mouth was open, but no sound came out. MacDonald looked at him and then at a silent Daniel. “Ye are both a wee bit large for me to take off my belt and burn yere backsides.”

  Daniel gave a half-smile. “I reckon I was riding him for being younger.”

  MacDonald turned to Lorenz. The expression on Lorenz's face hadn't changed and his breath was going in and out in sharp, angry gasps while he clenched and unclenched his fists. “Lorenz, go toss some rocks till ye calm down.” He pointed to a place beyond the outhouse.

  As Lorenz stalked off, MacDonald turned to Daniel. “I suggest ye nay push him into a fight again. He beat ye years ago, and he twill nay ere lose a fight.”

  “But he's four years younger than me. There ain't no way he can beat me. I must have slipped.”

  MacDonald sighed. “Danie
l, ye ride better than Lorenz. Mayhap ye even shoot faster and more accurately, but nay ere pull a gun on him. Ye will die, and Lorenz twill live with the mark of Cain on his soul.”

  Daniel pulled in a big gulp of air. “You don't know that.”

  “Oh, but I do. Have ye ere killed a man.”

  “I may have in that last raid before the cavalry swept through and destroyed the village.”

  “'Tis nay what I mean. I mean stand there and kill someone whilst they are looking at ye.”

  “No.”

  “Lorenz has several times over, and those men were more than four years his elder. I mean it. Nay ere point a gun at him. I suggest ye settle any differences with words. Ye both twill live much happier.” He turned and followed Lorenz. Daniel remembered those words when Lorenz bested his draw while shooting the shotgun out of Quincy's hands. He had managed to pull his gun out when Lorenz's shot rang out, yet when they just stood and practiced, he, Daniel, was faster.

  Lorenz wasn't sure what Papa said to Daniel after the fight, but whatever it was, Daniel let him be. He looked up towards the road and saw a rider, leading another horse, top the rise. The day had been humid with black-blue clouds hovering in the distance. The clouds had been moving closer each hour promising a downpour to wash away the dust and brown of a too dry summer landscape. The distance from the house to the rise was close to a quarter of a mile, and the figure seated on a horse appeared grey and shrunken under the darkening sky. Even at this distance, he knew it was Rity. Like the wind, he began to move faster, not caring if he sloshed the milk out of the pail. Instead of heading for the springhouse, he ran to the front of the house, set the pail on the porch, and yelled, “Mama, Rity's coming in!” He turned and ran to meet her.

  Rita flicked her crop against the horse when she saw Lorenz running towards her and then pulled up in a flourish as they met. Lorenz grasped the reins as a precaution when she dismounted, and they hugged each other. “I'm sorry I ran off, Rity, but glad I did,” he said as they broke apart. He was grinning from ear to ear and his grey eyes were shining.