Owen Family Saga Box Set: Books 1-3

by Ward, Marsha

  Something lay ahead in the deepening shadows. James drew his gun again and approached slowly. A silver-adorned hat, large-brimmed in the Mexican style, sat beside the trail. James picked it up and took another step. Flung face down against a rocky outcrop at the side of the trail was the body of a richly-dressed man. James put away his pistol, leaned over, and tugged at the man’s shoulder to reveal the remains of a brown, decomposing face with prominent cheek bones. The dead man’s neck lolled to one side—broken. The Mexican had been dead for several days.

  James straightened the body out on the trail. There was no blood, no sign of violence. “Looks like your horse got frisky, amigo,” he said aloud. “Bucked you off in the wrong place—up against those rocks. I wonder if it galloped all the way home.”

  The body was dressed in formal clothing. The green satin jacket had a blue serape draped over the shoulder still, and the embroidered hat with the silver adornments was surely not the man’s everyday headgear.

  James had not met many Mexicans, except journeying to and from Texas with the herd of cattle Rod Owen had bought. He had heard that some of the white settlers in the territory held Mexicans in low esteem, but Ma had always said, ‘Boys, you hold a man worth his salt until he proves you wrong’. That went for whites, Negroes, and Mexicans, too. Even though the Owens had had troubles with a Mexican outlaw, Berto Acosta, James knew the man’s brand of evil didn’t come from his ancestors. It came out of the blackness of his own soul.

  Julia Owen had a clear way of seeing things that didn’t always go along with what everybody else believed, but she’d got it right out of the Holy Bible, believed it passionately, and had passed it along to her sons. As a consequence, when James and his brothers went to war, it was to defend Virginia, not to protect slavery.

  James searched through the man’s pockets. There was nothing to help him identify the man, but tucked into a pocket of his jacket was a new leather pouch and a letter wrapped in a silk scarf. James stuffed them into his own coat and retreated a few steps, gasping for fresh air.

  “I’ll bury you come first light, amigo,” he promised. “You’ll keep until then, I reckon.”

  James removed the handkerchief and stood in the trail for a moment, sucking in long drafts of air, then started back to his animals. A low growl came to his ears, and hair stood on end at the back of his neck. He pulled his pistol and turned toward the sound, which came from the underbrush across the creek.

  With a rush, a large brown dog darted toward him, through the water, and up the trail. James leaped up into the rocks beside the trail, and scrambled onto a slab-sided boulder. Then he raised the gun barrel toward the sky and whistled in consternation as the animal tried to find a way to attack, barking and growling, its ears laid back flat on its head.

  “Hey! Get away! Shoo there!” James flapped his handkerchief in the direction of the rushing animal, and it withdrew a few paces, circled to face James, and barked again. Then it retreated to the dead body, which it sniffed. Whining and whimpering, the dog sank down beside the Mexican’s body, its head on its paws.

  James warily climbed down out of the rocks and kept his distance from the dog. “Tarnation! You took me by surprise. You must belong to him.” He motioned toward the Mexican’s body. “Well, I’m planting him tomorrow, old dog. Don’t give me grief when I do it.”

  The dog raised its head and sniffed in James’s direction. “I’ll bet you’re hungry, boy. If you get to feeling starved, come over to my camp and I’ll find some scraps for you.” The dog sniffed again, then resumed its position.

  James cast around for horse sign for a few moments, just in case the Mexican’s mount was still in the area, but the light was soon too dim for him to track, so he retraced his steps to his animals, filling his lungs with sweet, sage tinged evening air.

  Untying his horse and mule, he led them back up the creek to keep them from running off at the smell of the body. The sorrel followed easily as he moved it and the mule away from the trail onto a wide bench of land above the stream. There he unsaddled the gelding and let it roll in the dusty grass while he removed the pack and saddle from the mule. After watering the animals in the stream and brushing them down a bit, he picketed them to crop at the dry grass.

  Afterward, James gathered fuel in the last light and laid wood for a small fire, just enough to heat water for a cup of broth. He struck a flint with the back of his knife and blew gently on the sparks that fell into the dry moss tinder. When it smoked, then flared into flames, he put finger thick sticks into the fire, keeping it small.

  James set a tin cup half full of water next to the flames, then rocked back on his heels to wait for it to come to a boil, rubbing his hands together to chase out the chill. When the water bubbled, he fished a piece of jerky out of his pouch and crumbled it into the liquid to make broth.

  Like to take my appetite away, coming on that fellow down stream, he thought, then lifted the cup out of the fire with a forked stick. I’ll settle for jerky broth until my belly quiets down. He set the cup on a flat rock to allow the pieces of beef to soften in the hot water, got to his feet, and strolled over to the animals.

  After checking the solidity of the picket pins holding the animals on their grazing ground, James squatted and gathered up a handful of brittle grass. It’ll be buried under snow soon, he thought, opening his hand and letting the dry blades scatter in the slight breeze. Then he stood and walked into camp.

  He unrolled his bedding and reached over to the flat rock beside the fire to fetch his soupy drink. The odor of beef filled his nostrils and he took a sip, sat cross legged on his quilt, and sipped again.

  The broth was strong, and warmed him so he didn’t notice the nip in the breeze. As James drank with one hand, he took the letter from his pocket, shook it free of the scarf, then flipped it open. The fire had died down enough that he couldn’t see to read, so he put down the paper, raised himself to add a few sticks to the fire, then settled down with the letter once more.

  Fancy looped words mocked him from the paper, for none of them were in English. Snorting in dismay, he put down his cup to re-wrap the packet and return it to his coat.

  “I’d hoped to get word to your folks of what happened to you, amigo, but I reckon I got to get somebody to read me that note,” he said aloud, his voice regretful.

  James fell silent, sitting alone listening to the chirping night. He finished the soup, chewing the last bits of jerky, then placed another small branch on the waning fire and opened the pouch he’d taken from the dead man’s jacket. When he shook the upended bag above his hand, a thick, hand worked ring fell onto his palm, followed by a pair of ear ornaments. The ring glinted yellow in the firelight, and he weighed it in his hand.

  Gold, from the heft of it. Looks like presents for a lady. He dropped the jewelry back into the pouch, stuffed it in his pocket, removed his boots and trousers, and shucked off his coat. Then he slipped into the blankets, tipped his hat over his face, and breathed leather and sweat.

  Whether the chill that swept over him came from the night air or from his conscience, James did not know, but he tossed in his bed for some time. I should have made peace with Pa before I left, he thought, and eased himself into a better position in the quilts. Could be a man’s time on this earth turns out to be scant.

  ~~~

  James found a fitting place to lay the Mexican to rest, under a scrub oak tree alongside the stream, where the sandy earth wasn’t hard to dig, but far enough from the water that the body wouldn’t float away come flood time. He made quick work of the grave digging with a shovel he had brought along in the mining gear when he’d left home.

  When James approached the body to carry it to the finished grave, the dog—still laying beside its master’s body—whined, then bared its teeth and growled. James went down on one knee and snapped his fingers.

  In a low, soothing tone, he spoke to the animal. “Come on, old dog, I’ve got to put your master to rest. You can see I do it right, but I can’
t have you nippin’ at me during the service.” He pulled a short length of rope from his pocket and reached out to tie it around the dog’s neck for a collar. The animal sprang to its feet and snapped its teeth, and James fell backward and shook a drop of blood from his hand.

  “Six little beans!” he exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. “I reckon you’re not sure what’s goin’ on. If that’s the way you’re going to be, I’ll have to rope you like a cow.”

  He fetched his catch rope from camp, approached the wary animal, roped it, and dragged it to the scrub oak, where he got the collar rope on it and tied it securely. The dog howled for a time, then began to whine.

  “You sit there and watch, dog,” James said. “This has to be done.”

  James went to the body beside the trail, wrapped it in the woolen serape, carried it to the hole he had dug, and laid it in the bottom. Considering the decomposing state of the body, it was a noisome task, and James managed to get so rank smelling that he promised himself a soaking bath in the next town he hit. Then he applied himself to covering the body with the sandy soil.

  When the dead Mexican was snug in the ground, with rocks laid over the earth, James stood at the head of the grave and removed his hat. The dog stopped whining, and began to howl anew.

  “Lord,” James said over the ruckus, “I don’t know this man’s name and I don’t know the custom of his people come burying time, but I reckon You know him and take heed of his passing, so I turn his spirit over to You. I reckon I’ve taken good enough care of his body.” He gestured toward the grieving dog. “And Lord, please don’t mind the dog’s noise. He’s the only real mourner here for the man.”

  Then James recited a couple of Bible verses that seemed to fit: the one in Genesis about man being dust and returning to the ground, and the one about resurrection and though a man be dead, he’ll live again if he believes. The dog whimpered and pulled against the rope binding it to the oak.

  James tipped his head back and gazed upward. “I don’t know if this fellow was a believer, but Lord God, I’ve said the words anyway. Amen.” Ma would have been pleased with the service.

  While James had been busy with the digging and burying and reciting, a rising wind had filled the sky with low slung clouds, and by the time he put his hat back on his head, fat flakes of snow drifted around, settling onto the grave like a shroud. The dog pulled at the catch rope, and James turned it loose. The animal ran to the grave, sniffed at the rocks, and looked around at James. It looked back at the rocks, gave one final howl, then turned and trotted to James’s side, its head hanging low.

  James packed his gear, together with the items he’d found in the Mexican’s pockets, and got aboard the sorrel. Then he tried to back track the man, but the snow had blotted out the trail, and the dog ran back and forth making new tracks, so James gave up the task and lit out for a settlement that Angus Campbell had marked on the map he had sent to Randolph Hilbrands—a town called Leones.

  Chapter 9

  James halted the sorrel in front of a low adobe building and dismounted. No trees surrounded this building or any other that he could see. A light brown dust hung in the frosty air, marking his trail into the village. The climate in this place contrasted sharply with that in the higher country he had come through in the past few days.

  After he had buried the Mexican, James spent one day trying to make his way through wind whipped, belly deep snow, and another holed up with the dog, waiting for the storm to blow itself out. It was good to be in a town, where he could find shelter for a few days in case the storm headed this way. That didn’t seem likely, though. According to the evidence of powdery dust and brown, scant vegetation, this place had not had moisture of any kind for a long time.

  James shrugged his shoulders. It mattered little to him. He wasn’t looking for a place to settle. He had come to the village to find someone to decipher the letter so he could take the Mexican’s pouch to his family or friends. After that, he figured to see Angus Campbell about the colts.

  It took just a moment to tie the tether ropes for the animals onto a post set in the ground. Then James looked around the settlement as he loosened the saddle cinches a bit.

  Six or seven adobe houses formed three sides of a rough square, backed by a tier of outbuildings, then a second row of homes. A larger building, whitewashed and topped with a carved wooden cross, made up the fourth side of the square.

  “That’ll be the mission church,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his palms on the seat of his pants. He wondered if the priest here could talk English. The one who married Ellen and Carl hadn’t. One of the settlers had brought him up and translated for him. Remembering that day brought a black feeling of despair that he didn’t have time to deal with, and James thrust it away, deep into the recesses of his mind.

  He glanced at the center of the square as he strode toward the church. A well head stood surrounded by several adobe tanks and washbasins. Seven women with shawl covered heads scrubbed and rinsed clothes, and watched his approach with dark and wary eyes. He didn’t envy them the work in cold water. He looked up as the dog caught a scent it liked and followed it around the back of a house.

  Three little brown girls ranging in age from six to ten played in the mud at the foot of the community well. One looked close at James, then flung a cinnamon braid behind her shoulder with a casual hand.

  “Ain’t you one of them Owen brothers?” she asked, and he stopped and gave her another look. Although she was dressed in the native style, she was not the Mexican he had first thought, but a white girl, and the bronze color of her skin must have come from playing long hours in the strong sunlight.

  “I’m James. Who might you be?”

  She straightened up from the mud beside the well. “I am Rida O’Connor. Everybody knows that.”

  “Is your daddy Tom O’Connor, who was the blacksmith back in Mount Jackson, Virginia?”

  “What a silly question,” she said. “Of course he is. Now he’s the blacksmith here.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “You’re pretty smelly.”

  His face curled into a grin. “You ain’t so clean yourself.” He restrained the impulse to jerk her braid. “Say, where’s your pa? Maybe he can help me.”

  “Rosalinda said I could play. A body can’t keep clean all the time.”

  “I need to see your pa.”

  “He just got back from a trip. He’s over to home.”

  James looked in the direction of her pointing arm to the second row of houses. “Thank you kindly. I’ll go and pay my respects.”

  “You best stay here a spell. He only just got home, I told you. She sent me’n Josh off to play.”

  James thought he could have picked up that girl’s scorn and cooled a tall drink of water with it. “Who’s ‘she’?” he asked.

  “I already told you.” Rida bent over and peeled caked mud off her bare leg. “Rosalinda. She’s our new ma.”

  “Your new ma? Your pa got himself married? You don’t say.” He spit in the mud. “It’s a regular plague going around.” Seeing the girl’s puzzled expression, he added, “You didn’t hear? Some Spanish-talking priest came up a while back and married Ellen Bates to my brother Carl.” A flash of fire attacked his belly, but it didn’t feel right to double over to nurse the pain in front of this saucy child.

  “I heard. That was our priest. Padre Gallegos marries everybody around here. That’s his work. He married my pa and Rosalinda a while back. We had a party for three days.”

  It was the priest from here that— No! I’ve got to find that fellow’s family. James straightened his shoulders against his bitter thoughts. “I’ll go now and say hello.”

  “You better not,” she said, shaking her head.

  James ignored her and turned to re-cross the square, moving between the houses in the direction the child had indicated. So Mr. O’Connor took a wife, he thought. I reckon I can’t blame him. He’s been lonely since the missus died.

  He passed the row of outbuildings and r
ounded the house Rida had pointed out, rubbing his fingertips along the rough adobe blocks as he went. It’s squat and ugly, but warm in winter, I’ll bet. Arriving at the door, James knocked, then backed away a pace and waited. A woman raised her voice in excited Spanish. After a time, someone stomped across the floor.

  The plank door opened inward, and Tom O’Connor’s thick body filled the space. He was bootless, and his large hands hurriedly hoisted suspenders over bare shoulders. Thrusting his head forward, he blinked in the sunlight, and his black brows drew together as he frowned. The woman’s voice coming from deep inside the room kept up the flood of sharp, foreign words.

  It was evident that the man had been about some private business. James inhaled noisily and wished he could twist away like a wind spiral he’d seen whipping up snowflakes the day before. Then the scowl on Tom’s face changed to resignation, and he crooked his neck to turn his head toward the room.

  “¡Cállate! Tenemos visitante,” he hollered. “We’ve got company, so hush up.”

  “I reckon I come at the wrong time,” James muttered.

  Tom’s face returned to view. “You’re Rod Owen’s son. James, isn’t it? How old are you, boy?”

  James felt a creeping flush crossing his jaw, and hoped his beard was full enough by now to hide it. “Old enough to know I ain’t a welcome sight. I’ll be going.”

  “No, you come along in. It’ll keep.” His right eyelid lowered in a slow wink. “But Rosalinda won’t like it. I reckon she won’t take to you right off. I been away for a while, and she likes my company.”

  The man stepped back from the door and motioned for James to enter the comfortable room. “Come along in, now. Set down and rest your feet.” He walked James to the table and sat down. “Rosalinda, fetch some food. Comida,” he said, then turned his head toward the young man. “I’m teachin’ her English, now that I got some of her tongue learned. You’re hungry?”

  “I came to say hello, not to clean out your larder,” James said. But he sat anyway—in a chair like any chair, yet foreign to his eyes—and took off his hat, rolled it between his fingers, then hung it on the chair back next to him.