by Lyn Cote
Finally Niven rose, drawing his mount closer.
His movement caught Carson’s eye, and he turned back. “First time?” In battle?
Niven nodded as he mounted.
“Most vomit or get the shakes.” Carson kept his voice low, but frank. He wondered if Niven would have a change of career plans after a few more of these bloody clashes.
Niven looked away, as if wishing to divert attention from himself. “Who were they? I mean, they couldn’t be the Mexican Army.”
“Let’s find out.” Carson led his horse and began looking at the downed men. Most were Mexicans past help. A few Rangers were cleaning and bandaging their own minor wounds and those of other Rangers. Carson stopped, knelt to help a few tie bandages and get the Rangers back on their feet.
McCulloch met Carson. “It was Blás Falcón.”
“Who’s he? A Mexican vigilante or mercenary?” Niven blurted out the question.
“He’s one of the largest ranchers in this part of Mexico.” McCulloch looked in the direction the Mexicans had retreated. “I’m sorry he got away.”
“You mean a wealthy landowner just attacked us with his men?” Niven sounded astounded.
McCulloch looked down his nose at the Easterner.
Carson couldn’t figure out why this would startle the American. He tried to view it through Niven’s eyes. Niven wouldn’t know about Texas. Carson explained, “We’ve been fighting a border war for the last ten years. Some Mexicans held title to land on both sides of the Rio Grande. And they have refused to part with it. And some just hate Anglos. No Mexican has ever accepted the Rio Grande as the boundary between Mexico and Texas.”
Tunney came up beside them. “Yeah, so they raid and burn out Anglos. Steal cattle and horses. Trying to drive us back.”
“And some Texians repay them in kind,” Carson added.
“I had no idea.” Niven gazed around and shook his head. “What should we do for the wounded?”
“Nothing for the Mexicans.” McCulloch swung back up into his saddle. “Their people will come and get them after we’re gone. They know that though Rangers will kill any Mexican who’s aimed a gun at us, we don’t torture like the Comanche or Mexicans themselves.” McCulloch’s lips pulled back in a snarl.
Carson knew that every word McCulloch said was true. The Anglos hated those who tortured. And had no qualms about killing them.
Noting that the remaining Rangers had helped their wounded companions onto their saddles, Carson urged his horse forward too.
Niven hesitated there, looking around, obviously disoriented.
“Time to move on,” Carson told him. “This was just a quick skirmish. We need to cover more miles tonight. We’re trying to find Arista and the real Mexican Army, remember?”
The long night in the saddle finally ended. Near daybreak, McCulloch led the Rangers to make camp near another creek bank. Most were so tired that they unsaddled and hobbled their horses, then threw themselves down on the ground onto their saddle blankets. Carson had survived another skirmish. Flashes of memory kept taking him back to other gory clashes with Kiowa, Comanche, Mexican bandidos.
Taught by his father, Carson always took care of his weapons first before sleep. He did not tamper with this habit. His father had told him that it would save his life many times. And his father had been right.
Tonight it served too as a way to distract his turbulent, fractious thoughts. He laid all his guns in a row beside him. This year, this war had stirred him up somehow. He remembered his mother teaching him about volcanoes and earthquakes, great forces from deep in the earth itself that could rip cities apart and leave them in ruins. He felt that had happened to his insides.
Amidst the cover of low bushes and high grass, he sat cross-legged under a popple tree and began cleaning his guns. First the rifle, then the two Colts.
Niven lumbered over, looking saddle-sore and exhausted.
“How do you like being a Ranger?” Carson murmured.
“Not much.” Niven leaned against the tree, looking as if he didn’t dare sit down. “How long have you been at this?”
“Six years.”
“Is the pay good?”
“We get paid sometimes. When Texas can afford to.”
Niven stared at him. Finally, he said, “I’ve never seen pistols like those. What are they?”
Carson went on reloading. “Only a few of us have these. We could use more. These are Walker Colt .45s. Samuel Colt designed the first one. Our own Ranger Walker saw that it was just what we needed here in Texas, but it required a few changes to be more practical. So a few years ago, Walker went back east, found Samuel Colt and showed him what we needed.”
Carson held the gun in his palm. “Before, see, I would have had to take the gun apart to reload. Plus, the trigger kept disappearing into the gun, and it was too clumsy to get out easy.”
Wobbly, Niven leaned over, inspecting the gun. “Why haven’t I heard of such a weapon?”
Carson shrugged. “It’s been a boon for us. Before we got these, we were at a disadvantage fighting the Comanche. We had single-shot rifles or pistols to their arrows. And a Comanche can shoot a full quiver of arrows into a man while he tries to reload.”
“You wear a bow and have a quiver,” Niven pointed out.
“Yes, I’m good with a bow.” I’m good at most ways of killing men. This thought shriveled inside him. “And I use it sometimes if the raid goes on where I need to reload and don’t have time.”
“I have a lot to learn. And I want one of those Colts. How do I get one?”
“Well, why not ask Taylor?”
“I will.” Niven wavered on his feet.
“You better go lay down before you fall down.”
Niven nodded and staggered a few feet away. As soon as his head touched his blanket, he fell asleep.
Carson put his reloaded guns beside him, lay down, and tried to sleep. Impressions from the skirmish flowed through his mind. He couldn’t remember if he’d killed anyone or not. The Mexican faces were blurred in his mind. And then they became Comanche faces. Carson shook his head, trying to bring the recent skirmish into focus.
He’d seen Niven throw up. He remembered that clearly. And he’d seen that kind of reaction happen before. Killing made people sick. Or made them cry. Or shake. It was probably from God. Violence should make a person sick. Shake them up.
It doesn’t make me sick. Not anymore.
Grimacing, he made himself bring back soothing images of Sugar and Emilio’s wedding, of Mariel in her blue dress. Mariel. At least Mariel and his family were far away from this war. Safe.
After a week traveling southeast of the Quinn Ranch, Ash’s party halted early in the afternoon, camping near a deep creek bank. They were tired and hot in the mid-June summer heat. And the closer they ventured toward the rising sun, the more moist and unpleasant the air became. Ash’s dogs lay panting in the sparse shade, their tongues out.
Sugar had appeared lost in thought and, worse, near tears all day. Mariel talked to Reva for a few minutes and turned around to find that Sugar had disappeared. Where was she?
Mariel left Reva and Nancy resting in the shade of a stunted-looking tree. She walked past the men who were fixing harnesses and checking the horses and wagons for any signs of weakening from rolling and jolting over the rocky, uneven, vast landscape.
Mariel had almost become used to the continuing spectacle of miles and miles of land without trees, streets, houses, people. When, back in Europe, she had thought about America, she had envisioned forests and savages. Where were the forests? Galveston was as different from New Braunfels as New Braunfels was from San Antonio and as different as San Antonio was from the land she was gazing at now.
Sometimes she closed her eyes, unable to look any more at the measureless, untouched, uninhabited miles. How did people confront such a limitless landscape, such loneliness? She gazed around once again, impressed by the people around her. They faced this land and lived their lives
. Bravely. Like Carson Quinn.
“Mariel!” Sugar was calling her and waving from the brush near the creek bank ahead. “Grab a basket or bucket for each of us! Mustang—”
The breeze caught the rest of Sugar’s words and carried them away unheard. Mariel hurried back and dug in a wagon to find two water buckets. She picked her way through the wild shrubbery that lined both sides of the creek.
“Oh, good!” Sugar called out. “Come! I found wild mustang grapes!”
Mustang? Horse grapes? Mariel approached Sugar and offered her one of the buckets.
“Be careful. Snakes will be lying beneath the shade of the brush out of the sun,” Sugar cautioned.
Snakes. Mariel halted in her tracks. Carson had described to her all the deadly snakes in Texas. The memory of the little Heller boy losing his finger made her freeze with horror.
Sugar shook her head at Mariel, who was petrified in place. Then Sugar came forward and led Mariel by the hand. “This path is safe. I checked it on my way to the grapes. Look.”
Mariel looked around at the mass of twisted vines. She had never picked any grapes, much less wild ones.
Sugar opened her hand, revealing large, round grapes with glossy, dark purple skin. She squeezed one of the grapes and exposed what looked like a white eyeball inside.
Pressing her thumbnail into the flesh, Sugar exposed a double seed core. “You eat them like this—put a grape in your mouth and press it with your tongue and out comes the fruit. Then spit out the skin.” A little purple juice leaked out at the corner of her mouth. She sucked it in and giggled.
The giggle turned into a sob. Sugar turned away and began to pick grapes and drop them into the tin bucket. Plop. Plop.
I was right. Something is tormenting Sugar.
Mariel began picking grapes, trying to come up with a way to ease Sugar into sharing a confidence. The fresh, sweet scent of the ripe fruit tempted her. She couldn’t resist slipping a grape into her dry mouth, squeezing it with her tongue and letting the sweet, tangy juice flow. How she had longed for fresh fruit on the voyage to Texas.
As she picked the fruit, she tried to decide whether she should act as if she had not noticed Sugar weeping. But Mrs. Quinn was counting on her. Mariel said in a low, yet firm, voice, “Sugar, I will listen. And not talk about what you say.”
Sugar audibly drew in her tears, but she did not look at Mariel. “I know about the letters. The letters Carson found in that…place.”
Startled by this reference to something that had happened almost three months ago, Mariel considered it. “I wondered. I saw your eyes open in the dark that night. Why did you not say anything? I looked at you.”
“I know.” Sugar’s voice sounded constricted. “But the fear had come over me and I couldn’t say a word.”
Mariel thought about the times she had faced overwhelming fear. Maybe Sugar needed to know that everyone was afraid of something. “I have been afraid too. Many times. Fear can have great power.”
“What have you been afraid of?” Sugar asked in a serious tone.
Mariel would not give less than Sugar. She would be as honest as Sugar. Mariel reached down and brought up the worst, most fearful day of her life. She had to force out each word. “My wedding. I did not have a good one like you and Emilio. I barely knew the man who was to be my husband.” She felt drained, as if each word bled her.
Sugar looked over her shoulder. “You mean you were like my cousin Blanche?”
“Blanche?” Mariel repeated, startled. “Who is she?”
“We went to her wedding before we met up with you at…Montezuma.” Sugar’s voice faltered.
Mariel wondered if mentioning the town made Sugar recall the old woman, the one who had recognized Sugar, and if that was bringing fresh pain, like pulling a dried bandage from a healing wound.
Her back still turned, keeping a wall between them, Sugar started talking again. “Anyway, Blanche started writing letters to a man whom her brother met as a student at West Point.”
Mariel had heard of courtships like this even in Germany.
Sugar continued picking grapes, dropping them into the bucket and telling the story. “This man, Anthony Niven, visited earlier this year, and Blanche decided that she would accept his proposal. Blanche made it sound so romantic, but I don’t think she fell in love with him. He is very good looking. And he was in uniform. I’ll bet that impressed her—all the gold braid and brass buttons.”
This Mariel could understand. Scheming to make a good match in this dirty world was as common as mud. “Oh? A marriage of…gain?”
“My mother called it a marriage of two self-seeking hearts,” Sugar said, sounding a bit calmer. “Is that why your parents arranged your marriage? They wanted you to marry someone who would impress others?”
Mariel drew in the hot moist air, trying to draw strength from it, and failing. “My marriage was not like that. I did not marry to gain wealth or rank. The marriage was arranged by my parents. My husband was a teacher like my father but more interested in politics.” The old bitterness seeped in and around her heart. She had been treated more as a maid than a wife in her husband’s apartment. “My husband devoted his time to radical politics instead of providing for his wife.” He would have lived longer if he had kept to his teaching. Politics had imprisoned and, in the end, killed him.
“Why would your parents think he was a good husband then?” Sugar sounded confused.
How could Mariel explain to Sugar that her parents had not had much of a dowry and had no longer wanted the burden of providing for her? “I do not know.”
“And you couldn’t say no?”
“No.” Mariel left it at that. Of course, Sugar wouldn’t understand the way marriages were handled in Germany. If a girl had loving parents, her lot was better. If not,…“Grossmutter liebte mich.”
“What?”
Mariel realized that she had murmured this last aloud. “Sorry. I said my grandmother loved me.” And she said that God loved Mariel, too. She looked down at the lushly fruited vines. She had barely picked a fraction of the grapes there. This land had such untouched abundance. She recalled the widespread want in Germany. Perhaps God did love her. He had let her come here to these good people in this bountiful land. She returned to Sugar and her dilemma. “This is not about me, but about you and the letters. Tell me. I will try to help.”
Sugar went on picking grapes. A mockingbird sang on a tree nearby. The sun was hot where it sifted through the leaves overhead. One of Ash’s dogs barked at something.
Finally, when Mariel was about to prompt her again, Sugar said, “This year has been full of changes. I didn’t want to go east to Blanche’s wedding. I knew what it would be like. All society and everyone trying to impress each other and everyone looking down at me, the orphan without any family. I went to the wedding only to please my mother.”
Sugar stopped picking and turned to look at Mariel. “I think…I think that Carson had a tendre for Blanche. I hadn’t realized until I saw them together at the wedding. There, whenever Carson was near her, she behaved strangely. And she said such rude things to him, and in a way that he couldn’t say anything back to her without being rude to a lady. Something he wouldn’t do, of course. I was so angry with her.” Sugar pressed her lips together. “I thought you should know that, know what had happened to him this year.”
Mariel didn’t say anything, but yes, she had observed women like this Blanche. A stupid woman to scorn a man like Carson.
Sugar began talking in a brisker tone, “And then on the way home, that old woman in Montezuma recognized me. And now this war has started.” Sugar looked skyward. “Most of all, getting married made me begin to feel differently. I mean I’m a woman now, not a girl. I’m a wife, and soon I may be a mother. Do I want to be an ‘afraid’ mother? That isn’t good for children.”
Mariel stopped picking too and gazed at the pretty woman standing in the midst of the wild, tangled vines. Did Sugar know how lovely she was? Mar
iel chose her words with care. What would Mrs. Quinn want her to say? “Ja. You must not be a mother who makes her children afraid.”
Sugar’s face lifted. She put a grape in her mouth. After she swallowed the fruit and discarded the purple skin, she said, “You see what I mean then. I think I must read those letters. And not let whatever is in them frighten me. I have to stop being afraid of…how I came to lose my first family. Of bad memories.”
Mariel rested her juice-stained hand on Sugar’s arm, carefully avoiding her sleeve. “You will be a good mother. And you are already a good wife to Emilio.”
Sugar pressed a hand over Mariel’s. “I want you to marry Carson.”
Mariel couldn’t speak. Hearing her deepest desire spoken aloud for the first time here in the sunshine made her heart clench. She tried to smile, failed. She squeezed Sugar’s hand. Then, along with Sugar, she went back to picking the deep purple fruit, hiding her thoughts behind the chore just as Sugar had. Mariel continued to eat as she picked the tangy fruit. Merely something fresh to eat gave her a lightening of spirit. And that brought Carson to mind.
Not much farther and they would reach the army. Would Carson be happy to see her? Or had she put herself forward by coming without an invitation?
A little more than two weeks after they had left the Quinn Ranch, Mariel pulled up on her reins, awed. Spread out before her was an army. After endless and empty miles, the sudden sight of thousands of blue-clad men made Mariel blink. The thousands didn’t disappear. So it wasn’t a mirage of water ahead, a trick the sun had played on her over and over on the way here.
The seven of them all paused to stare at the spectacle. Then Amos and Nancy, Ash and Reva, all on the benches of the buckboards, and Emilio, Sugar, and Mariel, all on horseback, ventured into camp. They rode on and on through men, many shirtless due to the heat, who rose and gawked at them. How would they find Carson in this mass of people?