by Mari Collier
The new arrival had a puzzled look on his face and then it changed to disgust. “Y'all sound like a damn Yankee to me,” and he swiveled and pointed his finger at the two young men. “And yu uns stay clear away from my girls if you all are damn Yankees.” He swung back to Kasper. “Y'all hear? Keep 'em away if they're your damn nephews.”
Lorenz's eyebrows went up and Martin had a definite disappointed look on his face.
Rolfe, with MacDonald behind him, opened the door to the store as the man's tirade continued. “By God, if y'all are damn Yankees, I don't know why y'all are even alive. Maybe somebody ought to form a committee.”
Kasper did not see Lorenz start for the counter, but Kasper refused to be intimidated. “Sir, you are using language unsuitable for the ears of children and women. Please, leave my establishment immediately.”
“By God, they're my women, and I'll talk how I want.” The man was leaning forward over the counter. His women were taking small steps backward.
“Vat ist? Some sort of fight?” Rolfe had stepped in the door first.
The man swung around and was unimpressed with Rolfe's height and buckskins. “By God, a foreigner dressed like an injun. Y'all should learn to speak our language.”
“Und du should learn to speak American!” Rolfe's blue eyes turned hard and glinting, his hands automatically curling into fists.
Shelton almost went for him when he realized MacDonald would probably interfere and he halted. He stood looking back and forth at the two and then shrugged. He turned back to Kasper. “Where do I find those two men y'all said would know about boundaries?”
Kasper fought to repress a smile. “They are standing right by the door. Mr. MacDonald and Mr Rolfe, this is Mr. Shelton. He came in to ask about land, but he was just about to leave.”
Shelton decided to try one more time. “Is there anybody in this town that's a white man?” He glared at MacDonald as he asked the question.
“Fortunately, whether they were North or South, there tis nay like ye, and ye are beginning to annoy me. I suggest ye continue on to Arles. They twill be happy to accommodate ye.”
Shelton snorted. “This Tillman he mentioned, be he a Yank or a true son of the South?”
“Mr. Tillman wore the grey, and ye twill find him in the saloon.”
All sorts of emotions spread across Shelton's face. It meant leaving his women unprotected in the wagon in the midst of these, to his mind, dangerous people. “And how far out does your land go?” His question was a sneer.
“Oh, tis at least a day or two of riding in all directions.” MacDonald's face was hard, but a small smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth and his brown eyes were hard. “And if ye err where ye set up camp, I or Mr. Rolfe twill move ye off. I suggest a ride into Arles. Mr. Schmidt twill sell ye enough supplies for five days travel if that tis what ye need for yere family.”
Shelton's face became splotched with red, but he had correctly gauged the futility of attacking the giant in front of him. “By God, y'all are right. I need the county to help me against the likes of you all.” He stomped out the door, his family following close behind.
“Vell, dot's dot.”
Shelton, however, had other ideas. He stopped at the saloon and found Tillman. Tillman was more than happy to sell him his brother's ranch and use part of the money to buy new shoes for his girls; new shoes that Kasper just happened to have in the back, and he smoothly explained to Tillman that he hadn't had time to put them out yet.
“He's just bitter about the war,” was Tillman's explanation to the others as he helped himself to the last of the food set on the outside tables. Tillman had forgotten any animosity of Yankees he might have harbored and had brought his family along when help was needed for raising the heavy timbers of the church roof. After all, Kasper had carried them through the years of fighting for the glorious cause, and MacDonald and Rolfe had hired him for the drive; plus, they let him add fifty of his own herd. “I think he just let his big flapping mouth overload his humming bird—ah—behind before he thought about what he was saying. It'll be nice for Janey having another woman within a couple of miles for a change.”
Janey hid a smile behind her hand rather than let the gaping holes in her gums show. The war years had been hard, and there were few teeth left in her mouth. “There's even a girl Emily's age,” she simpered. “And they're Baptists.”
Janey's pleasant plans didn't work out. Whatever companionship Shelton felt for a fellow Confederate, letting his “women” visit was not something he allowed. He refused to let anyone that associated with damn Yankees to visit his place.
Tillman also left out Shelton's exchange with Jesse Owens. Shelton delivered an ultimatum before he left. “And y'all can tell those damn Yankees that they don't mess with me or come near my place. By God, if I ever find 'em alone, ah'll deal with 'em.”
Jesse shook his head. “Y'all are going to have to tell them yourself.”
“Y'all mean y'all are still going to serve them? Maybe I need to go into Arles and find some real men.”
“Mister, the folks in Arles tried that once. I reckon they'll think twice about trying it again.” Jesse began to take a strong dislike to the man.
Shelton turned on his heel and stalked out, stopping long enough at the doorway to turn and point his finger at Jesse and bellow, “Y'all tell 'em not to show up alone when I'm here. I'll show 'em why we should have won.”
Even if he had heard the tirade, Rolfe would not have changed his habits. He continued to drop in at Jesse's place whenever he wasn't out branding or hunting. Part of the work load had been shifted to MacDonald's hired hand, Ramon Gonzales. Rolfe felt that by selling his cattle he had provided for his family for decades to come and he could relax. Rolfe's relaxing was interrupted one afternoon when Shelton rode in to have a horse re-shod and then headed to Jesse's for a beer while he waited.
Rolfe's presence put Shelton into a bad mood and he didn't bother to order as he asked, “Don't y'all ever air it out in here? Seems y'all would improve the air if y'all only let white men in.”
Rolfe carefully set his mug down and asked, “Inside or outside?”
Shelton came at Rolfe swinging his right fist at the jaw. Too late he realized the older man had moved more swiftly than he thought the years would allow, and he took a fist to the jaw. Before he could recover, Rolfe swung again at the midsection and doubled Shelton over. When Shelton straightened, Rolfe slugged him in the jaw again. As Shelton hit the floor, Rolfe turned back to his beer and a boggled eyed Jesse. He waited patiently for Shelton to stir.
Within a few minutes Shelton pushed himself up. He sat on the floor and shook his head. When he looked up, Rolfe was standing there knife in hand. “Du come for me again und I slit du up der brisket like a scheine hund. Now get out and stay out vhenever I am here.”
Shelton may not have understood the German contempt for pig dogs, but the contempt in Rolfe's voice was clear and the danger of an early death quite apparent. He slowly rose off the floor and left without a word; hate for Rolfe and anyone connected with him curling his gut and eventually curdling his mind.
Chapter 24: Martin Takes a Wife
Brigetta turned away from the window with a sick feeling in her stomach. Her pink cheeks had grown pinker, and her heart was heading upward to lodge somewhere in her throat. The man she'd seen had not looked particularly young. His hat was a strange, wide brimmed affair, his stride still loose and easy, but he was wearing animal skins and spewing a brown liquid at Mrs. Hoefmann's roses. Had she risked everything for this man?
She was twenty-two years old, a spinster by the standards of the day, and a recent immigrant from Germany. She stood barely five-feet tall, with a fully mature figure, pale blue eyes, and thick blonde hair braided and wrapped around her head. Her features were considered average, and her eyelashes were so blonde and skimpy it looked as if she had none. When her parents died, she was left with very little and her options were few as no suitor appeared on her doorste
p. Working as a servant in a less than wealthy place did not appeal to her. Der Pastor had shown her the letter forwarded from an American Lutheran pastor. A young man, with the potential of becoming a wealthy rancher was looking for a good Lutheran wife between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four. He needed a strong worker who would raise their children in the old Lutheran doctrines, but there were none in his area. He was willing to pay for her passage if she agreed.
Brigetta had told the Pastor to write a favorable response, and she would leave immediately for the parsonage in America. She wasn't certain what was meant by the old doctrines, but she sold what few remaining household articles there were and booked passage. The journey had been horrifying days of being surrounded by heaving water, and wretched humans retching. Had there not been so many German speaking people in this huge land to direct her to Saint Louis, Missouri, she was certain she would have suffered an agonizing death, or been committed to a life of begging.
Pastor Hoefmann and Mrs. Hoefmann had welcomed her with warmth and with praise for the young man. It seemed he lived in a far place called Texas where few women lived, and fewer Lutherans unless you went to the large cities, or the farmlands of Texas. Brigetta did not understand. Was Texas a separate country? Brigetta willingly helped Mrs. Hoefmann, a small woman who chirped like a bird and bustled about accomplishing little. They assured her that her intended came from an honorable family and had forwarded money for her keep. Brigetta began to have visions of a fine home. Now all her hopes were dashed, but she had struck a bargain. She could hear the people below greeting each other, and Mrs. Hoefmann saying, “I'll call Frauline Rhineholdt for you.” Brigetta took a deep breath, directed her footsteps towards the stairs, and descended with her head held high.
Mrs. Hoefmann met her at the stairs, her brown eyes dancing, and her plump little cheeks a rosy pink. She took Brigetta's hand and said, “Frauline Rhineholdt, may I present Mr. Herman Rolfe and his son, Martin Rolfe, your intended. Mr. Rolfe and Mr. Rolfe, Frauline Rhineholdt.”
Brigetta's heart went back to her chest as Martin came forward with an extended hand. His hat was in his left hand and he was smiling. Brigetta realized this was a strong, young, bull-headed, handsome man with no tobacco stains on his teeth and no guile in his eyes, and she did not love him.
The next two days were a blur with so many details to attend to: the rings, the license, the quick ceremony by Pastor Hoefmann, the packing, and then buying tickets for a steamship. She remembered wailing, “Not another boat ride,” and the two men laughing at her. “Ach, this is a steamship. You'll enjoy it.”
They spent their wedding night at a hotel so fancy, Brigetta felt out of place. How could these plainly dressed men afford it? It was the table linen, food, and waiters that made more of an impression on Brigetta than the consummation of her wedding night. The letter had said the young man had the potential of becoming a wealthy man. When she gathered the courage to ask what the house was like, Martin shrugged. “Oh, it isn't much. Part of it is a dugout.”
Brigetta had no idea what he was talking about as their conversations were in German, and Martin used the English word dugout. The elder Rolfe said very little. He had merely fixed his hard blue eyes on her that first day and nodded his approval. Something in his demeanor (or was it the long knife he wore at his side?) told Brigetta this was a very dangerous man. When she realized that Texas meant the West and Indian country, she became certain that she would never live to an old age.
As she walked up the gangplank to the steamship, her legs almost collapsed on her, and she could see Martin frowning as he looked down at her when suddenly he brightened. Her cheeks burned red as he said in German, “Maybe you are pregnant already.”
An inspection of the cabin alleviated her fears. It was not like the steerage on the boat. “Oh, look, there's a dressing table.” She was reassured her new husband could provide for her and any children they would have, and her hopes for a good life returned.
Chapter 25: Chivaree
Brigetta clung to the buckboard. Occasionally, she risked reaching up to make sure her hat was in place. Perspiration was streaming down her face and inside her clothing. Dust was billowing behind and around them, coating her heavy poplin dress, face, and hat. She had brushed and hung her one good black dress when Martin told her they were visiting the neighboring ranch to see Tante Anna and Uncle Mac. She could not imagine why they were going there first instead of into town to see his married sister and younger brother. She still hadn't recovered from the shock of the sagging roof covering a porch that stretched across a house that was a dining area and kitchen built of wood and the two bedrooms dug into the side of a cliff. Peasants didn't live that badly, did they? The pots and pans, dishware, everything was either cracked or bent. How could they have spent money on a real ring and the steamboat? Martin and the elder Mr. Rolfe, however, were oblivious to the state of the household.
Martin sat beside her, dressed in the same suit and white shirt that he'd worn on their wedding day. She knew they should have been washed and pressed, but there hadn't been time. She wasn't even sure they had laundry soap, no idea of where the tubs were, and how did one get water to the tubs? Her worst fears were coming true. Martin had warned her about snakes that had rattles on the end of their body and venom in their fangs.
Martin did not notice her distress and was in a fine mood, pointing out the good grass on either side of the dusty trail. To Brigetta the lumps, ruts, and this ground they were moving on since leaving the road heading back to Arles could not be called a road. The grass swaying toward the skyline and the distant rock and tree covered hills (that Martin called mountains) looked wilted and dry. Had she married a mad man?
They topped the rise and looked down at the MacDonald headquarters. Brigetta gasped in surprise at the sight of a two story house, a real barn and outbuildings with fences for horses and even a cow in one of the pens. A lone tree shaded a small building not far from the side of the house. She saw a rider coming from the opposite direction lift his hat and wave. Martin smiled with satisfaction. “It's my friend, Lorenz. Wait until he meets you!”
Brigetta eyed her husband with dismay. She was dusty, rumpled, hot, and completely uninterested in meeting another male in this detestable, frightening country. Martin snapped the reins and the horses broke into a brisk trot, jarring and bouncing the buckboard over the rough trail. Brigetta hung on for dear life. Within minutes, Martin drew up by the hitching rail in front of the house with a loud, “Whoa.”
She opened her eyes and saw that the figure on the horse was waiting for them, grinning and holding his hat. From the porch came the sound of a woman's voice in German. “Good day and welcome!”
“Tante Anna, I've brought my wife to meet y'all!”
Brigetta looked and gulped. The woman was almost as tall as the door and she was dressed in a plain, blue chambray dress with no collar and sleeves that ended between the shoulder and elbow. It didn't look like she was wearing the required number of petticoats. Her white hair was tied up behind her head and curls had struggled loose around her handsome face. A small girl in a short dress, holding a stuffed doll stood next to her waving at them.
Martin clambered out of the buckboard, and the young man dismounted. The two shook hands solemnly intoning, “Herr MacDonald,” “Herr Rolfe.” Both were grinning widely, and after the handshake slugged each other in the arm. The woman on the porch came striding towards them. Martin seemed to remember her and picked up the reins to tie them to the hitching rack when the other said, I'll take care of the horses.”
Martin ducked under the horses and came hurrying around to help Brigetta down. She was still flustered when her feet touched the ground, and knew her hat must be perched at an odd angle.
“Tante Anna, this is my wife, Brigetta. Brigetta, this is my honorary Tante, and this is her daughter, Wilhemina.” He smiled and added to Tante Anna, “She doesn't speak English yet.” The last sentence sounded like an apology, and Brigetta's cheeks grew br
ighter.
Anna took charge, speaking in German. “This is such a pleasure, Frau Rolfe.” She grasped Brigetta's arm and pulled her toward the house. “Come in, come in, where the sun won't burn your pretty face. Mina, go fetch my fan. Would you like a glass of cool water or buttermilk?”
Brigetta's eyes opened and closed as Anna led her inside out of the blinding sun, but the words cool water roused her. “You have cool water?”
Anna laughed in a low chuckle. “Ja, we have a spring. Sit in the rocker while Mina brings the fan. I'll be right back.”
Mina appeared with the fan, and Brigetta put it to good use. She heard the kitchen door close, and the horse and buggy being led away. How long, she thought, are we staying? She couldn't possibly be more uncomfortable. At least the fan helped.
Anna reappeared with a pitcher and took a glass from the cupboard. Brigetta held the glass to the side of her face and then gulped the cool liquid. How could it be cool in this heat?
“Slowly, my dear,” said Anna. “There's more. Here is a wet washcloth that I dipped in the spring. Use it on your temples.”
Brigetta did as commanded, and Anna continued speaking. “You'll need to buy some lighter material for dresses at Schmidt's Corner when you are there tomorrow. Our summers are much warmer than Germany's.” Anna stopped when she saw the stricken look on Brigetta's face.
“You don't sew?”
“Yes, but, but I couldn't ask Mr. Rolfe to spend a lot of money, and it will take so long.” She stopped in confusion when she saw the stern look on Anna's face.
“I forgot. Olga took everything with her when she married Tom Jackson. You don't have a sewing machine.” Anna stopped. “Mein Gott, you don't even have decent pots and pans, do you? What about washing tubs? Dishes?”
Misery flooded Brigetta's face and eyes, and she blinked again to keep from crying. Anna bent down and folded her hands around Brigetta's. “Mrs. Rolfe, Martin would not dream of doing his work without proper tools, and you must have yours. As for money, he still has over ten thousand dollars left from the cattle drive, even with buying you the wedding ring. There's thousands left from last year's drive. I will help you make a list.”