The Homecoming

by Raine Cantrell

  “Rachel, take the animals to water after we unpack the mule. Then you can help me with supper.”

  “I’ll do that.” Matt grabbed the sack of cornmeal before she could argue. “I’m an old family friend, not a guest.”

  “Is that how you see yourself?”

  “Sure.” Prickly pear had nothing on Laine. He could almost see her bristling. “Just tell me where you want these packs.”

  “I’ll show you where, Matt.” Rachel already had one open, her precious package held close, the jug of molasses dangling from her hand.

  He made short work of carrying in two sacks at a time. Laine caught herself smiling at the way he had to duck the lintel, and with two sacks balanced on his shoulder, went through the doorway side on.

  “I’m fetching Theodore,” Laine called out. She turned for the short path leading to the small lake, her arms and shoulders feeling the coming ache of poling the dugout. Matt was already stripping saddles when loud barking came from the thicket. Laine spun around, drew her gun and started forward.

  A boy and mangy mongrel burst from the brush.

  “Theodore! What are you doing here? You were told to wait at the Perrys ’til I came for you.”

  “You gonna shoot me, Laine?”

  She stared from her brother to the gun in her hand, closed her eyes for a moment of terror, then felt Matt take hold of the weapon.

  “Take it easy, Laine.” He glanced over at the boy. “You’re Theodore?”

  “Tater,” he replied with a jutting chin. “Don’t like my name so I picked my own.” He took hold of the dog’s rope collar. “This here’s Capt. Tate. Least that’s what Billy called him. After his uncle who got himself shot in the war.” He tilted his head, squinting as he looked up a long way to meet the man’s eyes. “I don’t know you. You sure don’t look like the men around here. Is that big bay horse yours? Can I ride him?”

  “Theodore …”

  “Tater, Laine. I kept telling you I ain’t gonna answer to the other.”

  With hands on hips, Laine advanced on him. “Stop. Now. Explain to me why you are home. Did you and Billy have a fight?”

  She didn’t think he looked as if he had been fighting, just muddy and scratched with enough stickers on his homespun shirt and pants to announce he’d been in the thicket.

  Tater thumbed his ragged suspender. “Nope. Wasn’t there. No one was. Just. Capt. here. Someone locked him in the corncrib. The stock’s all gone, too. An’ someone sure made a mess in the house. Miz Perry’s gonna whup them good for tracking mud inside.” He dug his boot toe into the dirt. “Can’t figure Billy not telling me he was going away. We’re friends.”

  Laine inwardly recoiled in horror. “Of course, you and Billy are friends. Everything will be all right,” she whispered. “Maybe something came up with family and they had to leave in a hurry. Tell you what,” she offered, stepping closer, “I’ll go over. Could be they left a note and you just missed seeing it.”

  He shrugged off her comforting hand. “I’ll go with you so you’ll see I’m not lying.”

  “I never thought that.”

  Matt had heard enough. He went to his knee in front of Laine. He lifted his hand for the dog to sniff. “Fine-looking friend you’ve got.” He noted how protectively close boy and dog stood.

  “He’s a good hunter.”

  “Bet he is.” Matt thought the dog appeared downtrodden but willing to give another human a try. He didn’t growl, but his ruff was raised and his ears perked. His eyes seemed to warn Matt he’d need to prove himself. Matt’s gaze went to the boy. His eyes were direct, a lighter grey than Laine’s. Sun streaks lightened his brown hair, dirt smudged one cheek. His features marked him as Rachel’s brother. He appeared all rough-and-tumble boy. Matt wondered if he had ever looked like this, shrewd and innocent at the same time.

  Rising, he scrubbed one hand over the back of his neck. “You promised me supper,” he said to Laine. “Tell me where the Perrys live. I’ll go over and have a look.”

  He met the flare of resentment in her eyes. He tried to put everything he was thinking and feeling into his gaze. He knew as well as she did that something was wrong. Very wrong. And Laine was at the ragged edge of anger and weariness.

  She read so much in his look. She’d managed fine without him. Did he think she would let him waltz in and take over? Refusal hovered over the tip of her tongue. It was wrong to involve Matt. But she could feel a dark wind blowing trouble her way, maybe more than she could handle. She had been alone, too long dealing with whatever came her way, that she felt forced to nod acceptance.

  He handed back her gun. “Keep that handy.”

  “Be careful, Matt. If it’s who I think,” she whispered, “they are vicious, evil men.”

  “Laine, you know I never went looking for a fight, but I don’t run from one either.”

  “Well, learn,” she snapped, closed her eyes, took an unsteady breath, then released it. “I don’t know who you are now or what you’ve been doing. This isn’t your fight. They kill. I don’t want your death laid at my door.”

  Harsh? Hell yes, but he knew she was worried. He brushed the back of his hand across her cheek. “I won’t be careless. I will come back. And I’ve been to a hard enough school these last few years, not sitting in a rocker.”

  Laine shivered where she stood as he went to his saddle. Her fingertips brushed over her cheek as if she could capture his touch. Fanciful notion to be having now. Those thoughts belonged to the past.

  Matt lifted his new Spencer .56 caliber carbine from the saddle boot. It was a seven shot, taken off an outlaw trying to rob the stage where he rode guard. It was a slick piece of shooting iron.

  “Tater, take Matt down to the dugout. Tell him the way, then come right back.”

  “Aw, Laine.”

  “Right back. If you want that dog to stay, it’s a bath for each of you.”

  “You’re mean, Laine.” But it was said without heat.

  Wisely, Matt kept silent. He checked the load in his gun. Most men kept one chamber empty when they rode, requiring a double pull on the trigger before firing. It was safer. But Matt hadn’t known what he was riding into, so he carried a full load.

  Tater motioned him to hurry. He threw a last look at Laine. She had changed from girl to woman. Her road appeared no smoother than his own. But he could pick up and move whenever the notion stuck him.

  Laine couldn’t. Laine wouldn’t.

  And he felt an undeniable sadness that knowledge brought to him.

  Chapter Three

  The sky’s hazy cloud cover made it difficult to judge how far to dusk by the time Matt spotted the landing. Poling across the small lake had been easy. Finding a cypress with a strip of homespun tied to a branch was a little tricky, but the boy was right. He had poled the dugout through the clog of hyacinth into the narrow byway, then across the bayou.

  A hushed stillness blanketed the land. He thought about looking for somewhere less open to tie up, but didn’t want to waste time. Who knew what he’d find if he poled along the shore?

  Taking hold of the rope, he flung the looped end around a piling to hold the dugout fast.

  “Well lookee here. You comin’ back for what you all missed first time ’round?”

  Matt looked up. A short, stocky man wearing a faded red shirt and worn pants stood above him, training a pistol on Matt’s head. When a man you don’t know points a pistol at you, most men find a measure of caution to find out what he wants. Matt never claimed to be most men. When threatened he fought.

  He still held the pole, a good two feet taller than his own six foot two. With a sudden jab, he slammed the pole’s end below the man’s belly, hooking his belt. Ducking to avoid a wild shot, he bent his knees and using his upper body strength, swung the man out into the bayou. He shoo
k him loose.

  The man’s hat floated away. He splashed about in a panic, yelling he couldn’t swim. The next second he was making threats, then hollering for help. He made so much noise, Matt almost missed the grated whisper of boots on the wood landing. He swung to meet this new foe. This time he used the pole like a long club to send the second man flying into the water.

  Breathing hard, Matt watched the two men floundering. He would own up to trouble he made, but he would be damned if someone else would lay this at his door.

  “You fellas got better than you’d have given me. If you have any sense, you’ll know better than to start with me.”

  A soft chuckle came from the trees off to the side.

  Matt couldn’t see. He tightened his grip on the pole. What had he gotten himself into?

  “You ain’t got a bit more sociable while you were gone.”

  “Show yourself.”

  “Sure, Matt. I’ll do that. But it ain’t fair to start up a shindig without inviting your friends to share.”

  Matt made the short leap up to the landing. He had to rock with the wood boards to keep his balance, but he didn’t release his grip on the pole.

  Friends? He’d never had any to speak of other than Laine.

  Out from the trees, leading a brown horse with black markings came Lawrence Emmons the III, better known as Law, since his family ran to judges. A shabby gray Confederate greatcoat covered his tall frame. Law was a gentleman. He had book learning. His family was a proud old one, well known in the South.

  But Law had a temper too, along with skill with weapons. He was ready to use them, too. That won him respect tempered with the knowledge he was an honorable man.

  “What are you doing here, Law?”

  “Might ask you the same, Matt. The Perrys are friends. Word went out that they are among the missing. I came to see for myself.”

  “You don’t think I had anything …”

  “Hold up, Matt. I know you got to the settlement this afternoon. Like I said, word goes out. Without friends telling us what’s happening in the five counties, we’d be a sorry lot.”

  Matt realized the splashing had stopped along with the yelling. He glanced over his shoulder. The two men were gone from the water.

  “Don’t worry about them. They’ll crawl out, but they won’t be back. Some men only have the belly for a fight when the odds are with them.”

  “Do you know what happened to the Perrys?”

  “Miss Laine send you over?”

  “She did. And you didn’t answer me, Law.”

  Law grinned. He held his hands palms up in front of him. “Save your anger for what counts. Meant no offence in asking. She’s a fine young woman. I got a girl of my own now.” He turned away, dropping the reins of his horse. “We got coffee. Come visit with us. We need to talk.”

  Matt tossed the pole into the dugout, glanced at his Spencer but decided to leave it. He followed Law back into the trees. Most of the brush had been cleared, making it easy to walk.

  He had never had any trouble with Law, but there were others who had disliked him. He and his folks had not had much after they bought land when they moved here from the Kentucky hills. They had buried two boys back home. Pa hoped that a fresh start was all that was needed. Time to time they had sent Matt to town for their supplies. Those town boys had poked fun at his homemade clothes he’d grown out of, the worn-down boots he’d had. He was a shy boy, never having any real friends. But he wouldn’t knuckle under to those boys. If they wanted a fight, he’d go in fists flying, giving as good as he got. By the time he got man sized, if not in years, he was giving it back harder and faster. Some would not be forgetting that.

  Law wasn’t one of them. He had witnessed fights but never once had raised a fist to him.

  He’d built a fire behind a fallen tree. If could barely be seen. Any smoke was lost in the leaves overhead. Matt approved. It was the sort of place and fire he had when he camped.

  He settled down with his back to a broad tree trunk.

  “Still a trusting sort,” Law said, producing a tin cup. He poured coffee from the blackened pot. “We’ll need to share. We are mighty short of fine china this week.”

  Sipping, Matt smiled. “Real coffee. I’d have drunk from the pot.”

  “Now, don’t go poking fun at my hospitality. Here and there we manage to get decent supplies. I believe this came from a sutter’s wagon destined to grace Colonel Samuel Morton’s table. The Yankee won’t know the difference from the ground rye seed we sent in its place. How long has it been, Matt?”

  “Six years.”

  “My most belated condolences on your father’s passing.”

  “It wasn’t unexpected. After Ma passed on, he seemed to give up. He worried about me. I thought going was best. Maybe I was wrong.” He didn’t know why he told Law that, just a feeling that Law understood.

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t think so. But you’ve come home at an unsettled time. The Union Leaguers and reconstruction people are confiscating property and raising hell with anyone who fought for the South. If they haven’t taken your place by now, watch out, they’ll be after it. I don’t know if you kept up with what happened, but after passing the Reconstruction Act and removing Governor Throckmorton from office, well, most of us Texans took that as another declaration of war.”

  Law didn’t pace and his anger was controlled as he looked away for a few moments. “It’s bad. They enforce their laws by shooting, burning and stealing. We try to stand against them even if we’re forced to run and hide. And we’re still using our guns to live.”

  Two young men came up to the fire and helped themselves to coffee.

  “Matt Coltrane, these gentlemen are the Owens brothers, Robert and Aaron from up near Cedar Creek.”

  Matt nodded. He knew of the Owens clan but never had any truck with them. These boys were younger than his twenty-six years. Both wore ponchos made from cut down blankets.

  “Well? Anything to report?”

  “Nothing. We searched everywhere. No blood, but that don’t mean much.” Robert tossed back his coffee, then tucked his cup away. “Found wagon tracks. Heavily loaded. Not a speck of food or feed left on the place. Someone took a leafy branch and tried to wipe out tracks. Which means a careful someone. But who?”

  “Law,” Aaron said, “what if Perry got word they were coming for him. Wouldn’t have much time to leave us sign. Then again, they could’ve come sudden like an’ snatched them.”

  “Who’s they?” Matt asked.

  “You got a choice,” Robert answered. “We got Leaguer polecats, we got carpetbagger varmints, raider skunks. Law must’ve told you some of what we’re facing. But you need to factor in the rumor that Jim Purdy is riding north to raid and burn.”

  “Heard the name. Another like Quantrill with his murdering, drunken thieves.” Matt finished his coffee. He handed the cup to Law as the brothers walked off.

  “Law, no man ever came after me looking for a fight and went away disappointed.” “You aren’t listening. That kind of trouble they look for. They’ve hung our boys for having a weapon. There’s army here. They call us traitors ’cause we wore gray. They know who can’t pay their taxes. The whole band is theirs, so you need to dance to their music or fight.”

  A sick, churning feeling swelled inside Matt. “I don’t want more fighting.”

  “What you want won’t shuck any corn,” he replied, not unkindly. “You have a horse? Mule? Plow? Money? Even food? They’ll use their damn strangling laws to take it. You got to learn to keep your mouth shut tight. Accept what they dish out. They might come after you, anyway. Royce and his friends are back. They’ve never forgotten the shame you caused them. What’s more, they’re close as peas in the pod with the carpetbaggers.”

  “Royce and his crowd got
what they deserved. That sharecropper’s girl was standing in the shadows listening to the music. She sure wasn’t flirting like they said. When they dragged her off I followed. I gave them someone big enough to fight back. Her screaming brought everyone around. I’m not sorry for it.”

  “Be that as may, I’m telling you the truth of what will happen. They’ll be coming after me soon.”

  “Why stay then? There’s wide land for the taking to the west.”

  “How much did you take?”

  “None. I wanted to come home.”

  “Home. That’s part of it. Family. Friends. Too many folks with no one to stand for them. It’s little enough what we do. But it’s hard and getting harder. They are as thick as skeeters in the swamp.”

  Inside Matt, the sickness deepened along with a growing anger.

  What chance would he have? He was alone. He knew how folks in Cypress Bend named him wild. But the boy had refused to take slights. He was a man who had learned hard judgment.

  And what of Laine? He kept trying to block his thoughts from turning to her, but she pushed her way up front. How could he protect her? Not that she asked, but it was in him to do.

  Another tall, wiry-framed young man walked quietly to the fire. “It’s time to ride on, Law. We’ve been here too long.”

  “Matt, meet Will Bent.”

  Matt offered a spare nod, then stood.

  “Don’t let his age fool you. He’s good with those pistols and a man to stand by your side.”

  Bent kicked dirt over the fire. Law emptied the dregs from the pot over the coals. Steam hissed.

  “You can ride with us, if you’ve a mind to,” Law said with a sly grin. “We’ve got extra horses.”

  “Can’t. I’ve got a homecoming supper waiting.”

  “Tell Miss Laine we’ll find the Perrys.”

  “One way or another,” Bent muttered.

  “Their boy, Billy, left his dog. Laine’s brother found him locked in the corncrib and took him home.”

  “Named for his uncle. I knew Captain Philip Tate. Best damn fiddler and a fine shot. He’ll be missed. That dog, now, not a sort to be friendly. Billy found him a few months ago.”