by Matt Rand
Nelson stepped out onto the flagged patio. Elm trees surrounded it, and the flower beds lining the paved surface were planted with a dozen varieties of flowers. He caught the fragrance of several of them but could not identify them.
She stood at the far side of the patio, her back toward him. He watched her for a long moment, feeling the aching hunger in his throat. Three years was a long time, too long. She was small but sweetly made. The top of her red-gold hair would not quite reach his chin.
He said, “Melissa,” and his voice had a husky quiver.
She turned and stared in wonder. Then she cried, “Nelson!” and ran into his outstretched arms. She had been seventeen when he first kissed that mouth, and he remembered its sweetness well. Memory often played a man false, but not this time. He raised his head and said, “Melissa,” again. Nothing else would come to his mind, and into the name he packed all his yearning, all his loneliness.
Her eyes were close to his, eyes the blue of a clear May morning. Her breath was sweet against his lips, and she half laughed, half cried as she said, “Nelson, it’s been so long! At times I despaired of ever seeing you again.”
His arms tightened about her. He wished Forrest Goedeke could hear her words.
“The separation is over,” he said, drawing her down to a bench. He kissed her again. The sages said repetition dulled everything. They were wrong.
“Nelson,” she said, a sudden petulant edge to her voice, “why did you stay away so long?”
His laugh was gay and free. “Did you think I wanted to?” His fingertips traced the curve of her cheek, tingling at the touch of the velvet smoothness. “It took all that time, Melissa. But my dream is in my hands. It has begun.” He paused, wanting his words to be impressive. “I have a grant for more than two hundred thousand acres for myself.”
“Nelson,” she breathed. Her eyes sparkled. “That means you’re a wealthy man.”
Her reaction was the same as her father’s, and it was odd how it disturbed him.
“Not yet,” he said slowly. “But I can be.”
Her hands tightened around his. “Tell me about it.”
He spoke of the vast sweep of the country, of its richness. He told her of his plan to build a finer town in the place of the one that now existed.
“Nacogdoches,” she said. “What an odd name! What is it like? Is it like Natchez?”
He laughed with genuine enjoyment. “Hardly. It’s a wreck of a town. The houses are falling down. The streets are dirty. The accommodations aren’t fit for a goat.”
She pulled away from him, and he was aware of the stiffness in her voice and face. “Would you take me there?”
“Why, yes,” he said, a faint frown wrinkling his forehead. “It wouldn’t be too long before I built a decent house.” His frown deepened at her lack of response. “We’d be together, Melissa. Doesn’t that mean more to you than all this?”
She sprang to her feet, outrage in her face. “If you loved me—”
“You know I do,” he said in quick protest.
“If you loved me,” she went on, ignoring his interruption, “you wouldn’t even dream of asking me to go to such a place. You can sell that land, Nelson. We could live in Natchez.”
He stood up, and his eyes grew hard. “And live like your father? Grow fat and soft, with nothing to do? Is that what you want for me?”
Anger flamed in her face. “Is it wrong to want to live like civilized people?”
“Not wrong,” he said slowly. “I intend to. But you have to earn it, Melissa. I don’t want it handed to me.”
He reached for her, and she backed away.
“I won’t go with you!” she cried.
If the long separation had not convinced her, words could not. He said steadily, “All right, Melissa. It’s your choice.” He took a long time with his next words. It was hard to say them. “I plan to leave from Natchitoches in three weeks. My first families should be ready by then. If you should change your mind—”
“I won’t.” Her voice was hard with defiance.
He picked up his hat and settled it on his head. He felt a dull ache in his heart. He said, “Melissa,” and stopped. He would not beg, but he could not keep the wistfulness out of his voice. “I suppose everyone has his own set of values. Only time will prove them right or wrong.”
“If your dirty old town means more than—”
He made an abrupt gesture with his hand, stopping her. “A man needs two things, Melissa: a dream of accomplishing something and a woman to believe in that dream. If either is lacking…” He saw that she did not understand, that it was hopeless.
“Three weeks, Melissa,” he said, and strode toward the kitchen.
He went through it, setting his boot heels down hard. He entered the drawing room, and he did not think of the fine carpeting under his muddy boots.
Stevens looked long at his face and wisely said nothing. He picked up his hat and fell into step.
Nelson gave him a black look. He did not want this man with him at the moment. He wanted no one; no one but a girl. And the stubbornness in her face could not be melted.
When the great carved door closed behind them, Stevens said, “I’m sorry.”
Nelson stopped and stared at him. “You’re sorry about what?”
“It’s written on your face,” Stevens said gently.
Misery pushed words out of Nelson’s mouth. “She says she loves me, but not enough to go with me. She’ll take me in Natchez, on her terms. What kind of love is that?”
He was too engrossed in his own thoughts to see the hurt flicker in Stevens’ eyes.
“That’s more than she ever told me,” Stevens said quietly.
“These things mean more to her than—” Nelson stopped as the significance of Stevens’ words hit him. “What?” he demanded sharply.
Stevens sighed. “I love her, too. I’ve loved her for two years.” His smile was sad. “It never meant anything to her. Perhaps that’s my real reason for wanting to leave.”
“You were here earlier this evening?”
Stevens nodded.
That explained the butler’s behavior. Nelson stared at Stevens, at a loss for words.
Stevens said, “You won’t want me to go to Nacogdoches with you now.”
“Why not” Nelson said curtly.
Why not? he asked himself. They both suffered a common loss.
Chapter Three
The wagon train rolled over the dusty Texas plains. Fifty families were strung out in that long caravan, and better than fifty of the sixty-five miles between Natchitoches and Nacogdoches were behind them. They rode in a variety of conveyances, from two-wheeled carts to heavy, lumbering four-wheeled wagons. Some of the families led cows tied to tail gates, and every third family had a crate of squawking chickens suspended beneath the wagon bed.
Nelson and Stevens rode at the head of the train, their faces grimy with dust. Stevens rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth and spat out a gob of brown mud. He grimaced as he scrubbed his teeth with his tongue.
Nelson allowed himself a brief grin. “If you think this is bad, you should cross when it’s raining. I’ve seen mud so deep a horse could hardly pull through it.”
Stevens grunted and slumped in his saddle.
Nelson’s grin grew. It was a sympathetic grin, not a ridiculing one. Five days of this kind of journeying made anyone’s bones ache, whether he rode a saddle or a wagon box.
He did not slump. He sat erect, his eyes scanning the horizon in all directions.
“You still expecting trouble?” Stevens asked.
“I’m not expecting it,” Nelson answered. “But I’m not sleeping too hard just because it hasn’t happened yet.”
He had insisted that every man be well armed, and, counting the teen-aged boys who could handle weapons, better than sixty guns guarded the train. It was a display of force to discourage even the most reckless of the twilight zoners.
“If you’re bored, you can
ride out and get us some fresh meat,” Nelson said.
“Maybe before we camp,” Stevens said.
His chin was on his chest, and he looked asleep. He was a far different-looking man than the one Nelson had met in Natchez. His boots were so dusty that the original color was hard to determine, and his clothing was travel-stained. He had discarded the topper in favor of a floppy felt hat, but otherwise he was dressed the same. Dust was layered in the days-old stubble of beard, and he looked like a tramp trying to masquerade as a gentleman.
Nelson knew no regrets about bringing him. Though this country was strange to him, Stevens possessed an alert mind that thirsted for information. His ability with a gun surprised Nelson. The night before last, two quail fell to two shots from Stevens’ pistol, and last night he had brought down a deer with a long running rifle shot.
Melissa’s name was not mentioned between them, and Nelson wondered if it filled Stevens’ mind as much as it did his own. He also wondered if Stevens had seen her before their departure. Nelson had tried twice to see her, and each time the colored butler had said, “She’s not here.” He would not look at Nelson as he said it.
Nelson’s eyes were shadowed with the memory as he stared ahead. Three letters had also been unanswered. The sooner he forgot her, the better off he would be. He knew that. It was the doing that was going to be difficult.
Stevens turned his head and looked at the string of wagons. “There’ll be more coming.”
Nelson nodded. There would be more coming, many more. These three weeks had been hectic ones. His handbills covered three states, and he had talked to hundreds of prospective colonists. He had been too impatient to wait for all of them to gather, but others would follow. They would follow until the thin stream became a tide, until there was no more available land.
Stevens said, “You turned down a lot of families.”
Nelson nodded and shifted his buttocks. Saddle leather grew hard after long hours against it. “I wanted the most dependable people I could get. I tried to weed out the hopeless misfits. Most people are ready to migrate because they haven’t done well where they are. They always think the living will be better and easier somewhere else. It’s hard to persuade a man who’s doing well where he is to pull up stakes and move. So you get drifters and ne’er-do-wells.”
“Like me?”
Nelson grinned. “Not like you.”
Stevens’ eyes were unseeing. His words were so low that Nelson leaned toward him to catch them. He had the feeling that Stevens talked more to himself than to him. “I want land of my own,” Stevens said. “I want to work it and grow old on it. Then, perhaps in time—”
He did not finish, and Nelson wondered if the rest of the sentence was: “I can forget.”
“Work’s always waiting for a man,” he said gruffly.
Stevens gave him a faint smile and nodded.
Nelson turned his head at the clatter of hoofs behind him. A hulking man rode up and reined his horse to a brutal halt. He jerked its head into his lap, and the animal’s sliding hoofs kicked up a cloud of dust.
Nelson’s eyes narrowed as he waited for Hobe Jarmon to speak. He was beginning to feel he had made a mistake about Jarmon. Twice in five days Jarmon had been drunk and bothersome in camp, and last night Nelson’s warning words had lashed like a whip.
Jarmon bulked big in breadth, though he was not tall. His arms and shoulders were massive, and his hands looked like bear paws. Black, kinky hair covered the backs of them. He wore a full beard, and it was streaked with tobacco juice. His eyes were small and deep-set, peering out from beneath lowering, bushy brows. He wore a dirty, torn vest over long red flannel underwear. Nelson could not recall seeing the man with a shirt.
“How much longer we keeping on?” Jarmon demanded. “It’ll be dark in another half hour.”
Nelson kept his voice even. “Another few miles. I want to raise Nacogdoches tomorrow afternoon.”
“Hell,” Jarmon grumbled. “I’m tired.”
“I suspect a lot of the women are tired.” Nelson’s eyes never left Jarmon’s face.
The soft insult hit hard. A rush of blood mottled Jarmon’s dark face, and he said, “All right, mister. All right.” He whirled the horse about and raced back along the string of wagons.
Stevens said, “An ugly character.” His eyes were bright again.
“Yes,” Nelson said shortly. Jarmon would obey orders like the rest of them or get out.
He kept the train moving two miles farther than he had intended. Perverseness, he thought, and grinned. Not many miles were left. They should see Nacogdoches sometime in mid-afternoon tomorrow.
He saw to the corralling of the wagons and the placing of the guards before he returned to the campfire. Stevens set out beans, venison, and coffee, and Nelson ate with gusto.
Between mouthfuls he said, “You’re getting better. The beans aren’t burned tonight, and the meat isn’t raw.”
The raillery brought no response from Stevens. Nelson noticed he ate little. There would be long pauses when Stevens did not move or speak. He stared into the fire, and a lost, lonely look was in his eyes.
Nelson felt a rush of pity for the man. Loneliness was the worst of all emotions. It gnawed at a man’s vitals, and he was filled with helplessness because he had no means of fighting it.
He said, “We’re traveling an old, old road. Spanish merchants, carrying silver for their purchases in the United States, followed it up from Mexico City through Saltillo and Monterrey and across to Nacogdoches. It was old in 1700.”
“Time hasn’t improved it any,” Stevens said.
At least he was listening, and Nelson kept talking, hoping to stir him out of his mood. “It will be improved. I wish this road were the only irritation I had.” He shook his head. “Some of the conditions of my grant are going to mean headaches. Schools have to give their instruction in Spanish, and any towns we build will have to be governed the Mexican way. The small towns will have alcaldes.” He grinned. “That’s a combination mayor and justice of the peace. The large towns will be governed by an ayuntamiento, or town council. But I can raise my own army as defense against Indians and the outlaws. From what I saw, we’ll be needing that army.”
“Did Austin and De Witt get the same terms?”
Nelson nodded. “But they picked more settled country. I picked my land because few legal titles have been granted there, either by the old Spanish government or by the new Mexican republic. But whatever titles have been issued will have to be honored.”
“Why didn’t this Hunter you spoke of get his grant?”
“I think because he represented Indian tribes. He got what the white man always gives the Indians—nothing.”
“Is Hunter white?”
“I’ve heard talk that he’s everything. Some say he’s full-blooded Indian, others that he’s a half-breed, and still others that he’s white, captured by the Cherokees in Tennessee when he was a baby. He’s burned as dark as an Indian, and he’s as uncommunicative as any of them. He’s an educated man, and he won’t take this lying down.”
“All things considered, it sounds as though you’ve cut yourself a hard piece of gristle.”
“It does,” Nelson agreed. “I don’t think you’ll be bored. I’m going to check the guards again. Because nothing’s happened, too many take it as a guarantee that nothing will.”
He looked back after a few strides. Stevens was staring into the fire again.
He was satisfied with the alertness of the guards, and he re-entered the corral. Off to his right, someone picked at a banjo, and the soft, plaintive chords stirred him. Melissa, he thought. A big house and fine furniture were more important to you.
At the upper arc of the enclosure a campfire was dying, and Nelson walked toward it. He stopped as he saw the woman bending over the fire, frozen by the picture she made. She was tall and slender, but full where a woman should be full. She straightened, and he judged that the top of her head would reach the bridge of his
nose. It was odd that suddenly he wanted to know if his guess were correct.
She moved about the fire, and she had the grace of a willow in a breeze. Her hair was black, and the flickering firelight struck red highlights from it. Her face was finely made, yet with a strength to it. She sang softly, and the faint notes carried to him. When her lips parted, he could see the gleam of white teeth.
For an instant her name would not come to him; then he had it. Leah Mills. She was traveling with her father, Anson Mills, and Nelson had briefly talked to them in Natchitoches. He had thought no more about her until now. Perhaps it was only loneliness that made her seem attractive.
He advanced to the fire, and she looked at him. In the waning light he could not be sure of her eyes. Gray, he thought. They were well spaced, and their gaze held a disconcerting directness.
“Good evening, Miss Mills,” he said. “Is there anything you need?”
She smiled as she shook her head. A dimple appeared briefly in her left cheek. “Nothing, thank you. We’re—” She broke off as a dry cough sounded from the wagon behind her.
He saw concern sweep over her face and the tautness of her figure as she listened. He winced as the dry, racking cough continued.
“Your father?”
“Yes,” she said. She was silent until the coughing stopped. Then she looked at Nelson and said, “He’s better than he was. The damp air in New Orleans was bad for him. He’ll be better in Texas.” She said it with fierce determination, as though her will would make it so.
Nelson doubted it. That cough sounded as though Anson Mills were in the last stages of consumption. Nelson ached for some way to help her.
She said, “I must see if he wants anything. I hope he sleeps tonight.”
She moved away, and her dismissal increased the loneliness in Nelson. He wanted to call her back. He stood there until she disappeared into the wagon. Then he walked toward his campfire, remembering the sound of her voice. It was low, with a pleasant throatiness.
Stevens was wrapped in his blankets when Nelson returned. His breathing was quiet and spaced, but Nelson had the feeling that he was not asleep.