by Mari Collier
“There ain't nothin' there but women, Mexicans, and one old man that might be a mixed breed.”
Taylor had sneered at the thought of an old Dutchman being dangerous. Now his ant covered head, neck and top of his shoulders were mostly eaten away. Animals had torn his clothes to get at his flesh. Someone had shot him, possibly scalped him, and thrown him into the willows along the river.
“I don't believe we'll give the Rolfe ranch a visit. The other one sounds like easier pickings and we'll be ready when the men come back.”
Farley wheeled his horse and the others followed suit.
* * *
Antoinette returned to the house after leaving Armeda in charge of the laundry. Her dark hair was pulled up and coiled at the top, looping around to brush the neck. Curls carefully made to look rebellious framed the sides of her face. Her cotton dress implied that this was a work day. Summer had set in and the grasses were drying, waiting for the late summer and fall rains that would sweep up from the coast. The day was warm, but not unbearable. Lorenz wouldn't return from the cattle drive until sometime in August. Perhaps there would be an opportunity to work on her watercolors later. She held three-year-old Melissa's hand firmly in hers.
Kendall could stay with the laundry workers' children happily building his forts to fight off the Indians, wrestle with the others, and devise ways to shoot a missile or rock somewhere. He'd already been warned that one more rock landing near the wash tubs meant he was in his room until dinner. At five years of age Kendall needed to roughhouse with boys his own age or there would be a fight between him and his studious brother. A situation Antoinette would not risk with Lorenz away on a cattle drive.
She entered the back door through the covered porch and went to the kitchen. When they enlarged the main house they built the side of the kitchen out to butt against the springhouse. Now the door to the springhouse opened from the coat area. This technique had widened the kitchen by ten feet and it was now a spacious room for the huge cook stove, sturdy table, and cabinets. A veranda wrapped across the front of the house.
By adding five feet to the original great room, Antoinette had gained her dining room. True it was a bit narrow, but it was large enough to hold her fancy rosewood dining set. The sweeping stairway in the entrance and grand hall was her pride and joy. The hallway between the bedroom, the old stairwell and part of Mina's bedroom was now a bath. By widening the east side of the house and using the rest of Mina's bedroom she gained a parlor for the rosewood piano, fancy sofa, and needle worked cushioned chairs. Lorenz had painted a lovely portrait of her and hung it on the wall behind the piano.
They'd left the fireplace along the south wall of the hall. When one entered the front, the view ran straight to the French doors opening to the garden. She had laborers install a low, paved with stones, veranda between the French doors and garden. It was more like a Spanish patio or court area where one could catch the breezes. Lorenz's office door was on the other side of the fireplace. She had disliked the original great room and modernized everything by eliminating the old dining and seating area and creating specific rooms. It was a shame there really wasn't space enough for a separate music room, but she had conceded that he needed the office. The sewing room she located upstairs with the bedrooms for the children.
Six-year-old Randall was sitting on the fireplace hearth bent over a Dickens's novel. She really didn't think he could understand much of it, but was secretly afraid he understood far too much.
Melissa looked at Randall and then at her mother. “Why can't I go back outside and play with Kendall?”
“Because he plays too rough for a young lady like y'all. Let's find your colored chalk and y'all can draw something. Maybe Randall will help y'all with your numbers or alphabet.”
Antoinette didn't think other children learned as rapidly as her first and last born. She wasn't sure a governess would be sufficient this fall. Miss Ambrose was to return in September. Lorenz had mentioned he would look for a teacher after the drive. One was needed. Antoinette felt the Rolfe children would benefit as much as her own. It seemed Marty Rolfe was the only one receiving any instruction and that was in the ways of the wild from his grandfather. She shuddered at the thought.
The clatter of hooves, gunfire, men's shouts and women's screams interrupted her thoughts. Randall looked up at her, and his eyes widened.
“Mama, do y'all want me to find Pawpaw's rifle? It's danger.”
Antoinette looked out the huge front window and saw six horses. Two were heading for the house and four were racing for the barn and bunkhouse area.
“No, come with me both of you!” She picked up Melissa and ran to her bedroom and put Melissa and Randall in the closet.
“Don't move. Randall, take care your sister. Be still, very, very still. Shh. Don't come out of there until I say it's all right!” Her voice was stern, insistent.
There wasn't time to grab one of the larger guns from the office and she pulled her derringer from her purse and ran to the rocker by the window. From the table beside the rocker, she picked up her embroidery and covered the derringer with the linen scarf she was working on. Thank goodness the bed is made ran through her mind. She heard the man coming up the porch steps and wished she had had time to be sitting in the parlor. She did not want Randall to come out to protect her. Thank God it was Randall in the closet and not Kendall. Kendall would be arguing with her.
The man didn't really knock at the door. He kicked against it and walked in. Julia had been in the kitchen, but must have run.
Antoinette walked to the open bedroom door with the linen strewn with a field of pink and blue flowers draped over her right hand and the needle in her left hand.
The man was clad in denims and a dirty, sweat-stained calico shirt. His grey hat was wide brimmed and two guns hung on his hips. Obviously, someone had told him the men were gone. He needed a bath, and Antoinette stilled a gag from the stench of him.
“Hallo, pretty lady. Greet the new man of the house. We're taking over…”
Antoinette pulled the trigger. The first shot hit his gut and the second his heart. He splayed out on the floor, his blood running in both directions, staining the wooden boards. She quickly stuck the empty derringer in her pocket and grabbed the light wooden, caned bottom chair by the bedroom door. If he moved, she would bash him with it.
She walked to his side and bent over enough to pull out one of his pistols. From outside came the call.
“Farley, y'all okay. What's going on?”
She could hear the man mounting the steps and ran back to the bedroom doorway. There she turned and aimed the revolver at the open front door as the man tried to come in sideways. He held his revolver at shoulder height, trying to see who was on the other side by the downed man. Antoinette pulled back the hammer and fired, then repeated the process. At least Red had taught her to shoot straight. She knew she had hit him, but didn't think it was a fatal.
This revolver held a much heavier caliber and the man was slammed backwards and out the door. He began scrabbling across the porch, desperate for a way to out of here and safe.
Toni ran for the office and pulled down the rifle hung over the doorway. This one she knew was loaded. Then she opened the drawer of the gun case and took out the shells and put them in her apron pocket. She peered around the edge of the fire place. To her horror, Randall stood in the open bedroom door with lips set in a straight line, his slender body held straight, the red hair neatly in place.
“Go back, go back.” She was yelling. She didn't want him hit by a stray shot. That man might shoot through the door.
Outside she could hear other shots and men yelling. Oh no, she thought, one handyman and two Mexican hands and all of them too old for the trail. She doubted if they even had guns. She ran to the front window, knelt, and peered over the sill. The wounded man had managed to regain his saddle on his horse. The stains on his shirt and one leg told her she had hit his right shoulder and one of his legs. He turned his horse tow
ard the barn and bunkhouse area. Antoinette ran for the back door. She could fire from behind the tubs or the washhouse itself; anything to keep those men away from the children inside and Kendall who was outside somewhere. Dear Jesus let him be safe with one of the Mexican women.
As she emerged from the back porch door and looked at the scene below, she saw that two of the men were off their horses and had the Mexicans kneeling and they were raising their rifles to their shoulders. The other two men were on their horses and started for the house. Antoinette took careful aim and fired. One of the men coming towards her slumped over his saddle and his horse shied and danced at the sudden smell of blood. The other horse reared at the shot and the man turned it and headed for the lane. Antoinette aimed one shot at his back and one at the two with the rifles, fired, and ducked down behind the back steps. Mentally, she counted: four shots fired; two shots left. This time there was no Anna to back up her down time.
“Senora, is that you?”
The words came softly in Spanish. Antoinette looked up. Armeda stood at the far side of the washhouse. Miracles of miracles, she carried Anna's old shotgun. Armeda had requested the weapon when they had given her the right to choose something of Anna's. Like Anna, the shotgun gave her comfort when her man was gone.
Antoinette took a deep breath. “Armeda, I'm going to fire two more times and then I'll need to reload. If someone starts toward us while I'm reloading, fire that at them.” Then a frightening thought came to mind.
“Armeda, is the shotgun loaded?”
“Si, Senora.”
Antoinette didn't ask if she could hit anything. In this situation, it didn't matter. A shot from below got her attention.
“That's one of your hands. Give up now and we won't shoot the other two.”
Antoinette stood and ran for the open door of the washhouse. They fired, but their shots were hurried and their aim bad. She hadn't given them time to get her uphill range. Once inside she broke the south window with her rifle butt and ducked knowing that their next shot should come in there. She ran to the east window and broke it, ducked again, and walked bent over to the south window and fired. Like the men, she hadn't taken time to aim and the shot went harmlessly into the ground and the next trigger pull clicked harmlessly. Antoinette jacked out the shells with a rapid motion to reload.
The remaining horseman whooped and started for the washhouse at a run. Armeda must have suspected something. She stepped out and ran forward, fired the shotgun, and ducked inside the door.
The horse screamed and reared, nearly sending the man out of the saddle. Behind him he heard another scream. He turned and saw one of the men guarding the Mexicans on the ground with a pitchfork impaled in his back.
“Let's get out of here.” He wheeled his horse and followed the other man.
Antoinette finished loading the rifle and peered out the door. The one remaining man shot at the Mexican he was guarding, mounted his horse and started for the house.
This time Antoinette took careful aim before firing, and the man tumbled from the saddle. His horse bolted and headed for the open prairie.
A strange quiet seemed to descend on the ranch yard.
Antoinette stood clutching the rifle, her stomach heaving, her hands trembling, and water filling her eyes.
Armeda emerged from the shadows in the washhouse. “They are gone, Senora.”
Antoinette turned. “Armeda, I, I can't tell y'all how wonderful y'all were.”
Armeda's eyes were wide and serious. “You are strong; just like Mother MacDonald.”
Toni was having a terrible time trying to control her emotions. “No, Armeda, Mother MacDonald would have still been angry. All I want to do is cry.” She choked back the tears.
“Kendall, where is he?”
“He is with my Conchita, Senora. She has all the little ones.”
From below came a holler. “Hey, Missus MacDonald, Pedro needs to be bandaged.” It was Bill, the man hired as a handyman. “That feller I got with the pitchfork ain't going to make it.”
“All right, Bill, I'll get my medical bag and be right there.”
Antoinette turned to Armeda. “Y'all are getting a brand new sewing machine and Conchita is going to learn her numbers and also how to read and write a fine hand. Please have her keep Kendall long enough for me to tend to the man below. Conchita is ten-years-old now and if she is as smart as her mother, I think she'll make a wonderful lady's maid.” Just what Armeda might think didn't concern her.
Antoinette hurried back into the house for her bag and her babies; she had to get them out of the closet. That man had to be removed from her hall, the floors bleached, sanded, and refinished. Coffins needed to be constructed. Now where did Julia go? She opened the door to the springhouse and deep, full screams from Julia.
The Family: The Middle Years 1886 to 1899
Chapter 11: Father and Sons, the Next Generation
The year 1886 started pleasantly enough for the inhabitants surrounding Schmidt's Corner. There were no wars affecting them, the nation was slowly healing from the dirty, bitter 1884 campaign waged by Democrats for Grover Cleveland and the Republicans for James G. Blaine. The West heaved a sigh of relief when the news of Geronimo's capture in March spread throughout the region, and even the most hard-hearted political opponents warmed over President Cleveland wedding the lovely Frances Folsom in the spring. Most of the concerns in Texas were over using barbwire for fencing or not fencing at all. Lorenz and Martin argued over whether they should allow a railroad over their land for a station at Schmidt's Corner. Martin was against a railroad; Lorenz felt it necessary to avoid the railhead in Arles where they shipped their beeves rather than trail them. Their argument waxed back and forth as spring left and summer began to spread its hot and humid heat.
Randall and Kendall raced their mounts up to the front porch, flung their reins over the hitching rail, and pounded up the steps each trying to beat the other into the door. Sixteen-year-old Randall beat his brother by inches; his legs were longer and he wasn't impeded by spurs. Both ran to the office where they knew their father was working.
“Papa, Uncle Martin needs y'all,” shouted Kendall at Randall's back. Randall might be older and taller, but he rarely spoke as rapidly.
Lorenz looked up from the papers neatly arranged in front of him and saw an angry Randall and an excited Kendall skidding to a halt in front of his desk. Randall had fulfilled Anna's foreboding. He looked exactly like his Justine fore bearers: tall, slender, red hair slightly wavy, and copper colored eyes with a golden circle around the pupils. Lorenz had been surprised that Randall had accompanied Kendall over to the Rolfe ranch. Normally, Randall ignored anything to do with the ranches, but it was still three weeks before Randall would leave for the East and college. Boredom probably drove him to associate with the others.
Kendall resembled his father. He was two inches away from six feet. His black hair wasn't as curly as Lorenz's, his eyes blue instead of grey, and the cleft in the chin less pronounced. He continued his nonstop message. “One of Uncle's hands brought word that there's a homesteader family almost here, and they've already made their claim at the county office in Arles for that land up by the spring near the foothills, and they've got pigs, scrawny cows, and maybe sheep, and Uncle's going to run them out before they can settle, and he wants y'all there.”
“Where are the homesteaders and where is Martin?”
“The homesteaders just drove by our place, and Uncle's getting his boys and some of his hands. He says y'all need to take a stand and not let such filth mess up our land.” The Texas drawl was thick on Kendall's tongue.
“Father, there are no sheep and but one skinny hog, along with two miserable looking cows. You cannot seriously consider being a part of…” Randall stopped as Lorenz rose.
“Come with me. I'll need to saddle.”
“I will not be a part of this.”
Lorenz looked at his white-faced older son before he spoke. “Kendall, go see that my hor
se is saddled. Now!”
Kendall grinned wickedly and left the room as rapidly as he had entered.
“Randall, I want both of my sons there.”
“Why? So we can see how you destroy people to increase your wealth?”
“It seems y'all have imbibed too much of the Easterners way of thinking. Y'all may choose between going hogtied or upright.”
“Why bother with such physical means when you can use your mind?”
“Damn it, son, y'all know I will not use my mind on y'all, but if I did, y'all couldn't stop me. Now are y'all coming upright or not?”
Randall's gold-banded copper eyes blazed with hatred before he spoke. “I'll go, but if necessary to prevent bloodshed I'll stand in front of the homesteaders.” He clamped his lips together. Appealing to his mother, wherever she might be, would be of no use. She might stop any mistreatment of Kendall, a younger version of his father, but not for him.
“I suggest y'all remain on your horse.”
Lorenz picked up his rifle setting against the wall and a handful of shells, and led the way to the front door. He decided against leaving a message for Toni. They should be back within the hour. He watched Randall stalk toward the barn without his horse. We're like two stallions in a stall, he thought. It rarely works. Kendall must have taken his own horse with him and he grabbed the reins of Randall's horse. He wanted no more arguments with Randall.
His horse was almost saddled when they reached the stables, and he stepped closer to finish the cinching. He dropped the extra shells into the saddlebag before swinging up. Both of his sons followed suit.
“I want both of you to stay behind me, no matter what happens. Neither of you all will ride ahead. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Kendall was eager to agree to anything.