Before We Leave (Chronicles of the Maca Book 3)

by Mari Collier

  “Randall?”

  “I believe that will depend on the situation.” Randall refused to give an inch.

  Lorenz kicked his heels and slapped the reins into the horse's sides, urging his horse into a fast trot. All of them moved out following the road that led towards the Rolfe ranch and Schmidt's Corner. The word road was a loose terminology. The road was used by any passerby on horses, cattle drives, and wagons. Deep, grooved ruts had worn into the ground since Lorenz first arrived.

  Lorenz made sure he remained in the lead. Within minutes he could see the group ahead: one covered wagon in bad shape, a couple of milch cows tied onto the back, one pig being pulled along by someone on a lanky horse. He suspected the rider was young as the job wouldn't go to the man of the family. He rejoiced that Kendall's report about sheep was wrong. One pig wouldn't breed unless it was a sow all ready pregnant, but he doubted it. He nudged his horse into a gallop as he saw Martin and crew arriving, blocking the passage of the wagon.

  Lorenz reined his horse up along side of the team of heavy work horses, and eased back into the saddle. Martin's face was flushed underneath the deep tan and he was roaring at the new arrivals.

  “You all ain't welcomed here. Go back to where you all came from.” He waved his rifle at the couple.

  Lorenz swung a quick glance in the homesteaders' direction. The woman holding a baby was white faced. He heard Kendall behind him unleash his rifle. “Kendall, put that rifle up.” He turned back to Martin.

  “Aw, Pawpaw, I was just going to shoot the pig.”

  Lorenz ignored Kendall's protest. “Martin, don't y'all think y'all should put up your guns and tell your boys and men to do the same? These folks don't look like they will hurt anybody, and I don't see them holding any weapons.”

  Martin snapped his head in Lorenz's direction as did the rest of the men in the group. Lorenz wasn't worried about Martin. He'd taken his measure years ago. It was Martin's son, Martin Junior, who worried him. Marty, as they called him, had inherited Herman Rolfe's hard nature. He was the one that could and would kill.

  “Are you defending them?” Martin was still roaring. “They're nesters. They'll ruin the land. Better to hang the man right now.”

  “Martin, y'all can't kill innocent people, and if y'all kill one, y'all will have to kill all of them: man, woman, boy, and child.”

  He let that one sink in as silence descended on the group.

  “Then we take the wagon and everything destroy.” Martin reverted to the German syntax, something he hadn't done in years.

  Damn, thought Lorenz. He's crazy mad.

  “Martin, be reasonable. Y'all will still wind up killing them. If y'all don't, the man will fight or somehow bring the law here. Leave it be. This part of Texas will never be fit for farming. The land will defeat them.”

  “By Gott, I ain't waiting. What's the matter with y'all? Are y'all going to help or not?”

  “Martin, think. Y'all can't do this. Not without breaking God's law.”

  “Don't use scripture on me.”

  “Hell, y'all helped teach it to me! I can't let y'all do something y'all aren't going to be able to live with.”

  “Who are y'all to talk? Y'all killed three men before y'all were sixteen, and how many since?”

  “Martin, those men were trying to kill me or my people. I'm the one living with it, not y'all.”

  Martin raised his rifle and shook it. “Just what are y'all going to do? We've got our guns out.”

  Somehow there was a revolver in Lorenz's hand pointed straight at them. Surprise flickered across each face.

  “Last warning! These people drive away from here now. No one bothers them. If anyone tries, I will shoot.”

  “I thought y'all were my friend. Y'all do this, Lorenz, and no MacDonald is welcomed on my place; not y'all, not Mrs. MacDonald, and not your kids.” He looked and saw that Lorenz had no intention of moving.

  Martin knew too well that Lorenz did not bluff; not at poker, not in fights. He could not risk his son's lives. It was too much to ask of a man. He waved his rifle at the group and turned his horse towards his ranch. The rest followed.

  Lorenz's face did not move, but his lips had whitened. Damnit, Martin, he thought to himself, y'all are my friend; my only friend. He sat there immobile watching the group ride away until they had ridden over a rise and reappeared still going towards the Rolfe spread. Kendall moved his horse closer.

  “Uh, Pawpaw, shouldn't we go after them?

  “Why? We would not be welcomed.” Lorenz slipped the revolver back into the holster and turned his horse toward his Rearing Bear Ranch. He did not look at the people on the wagon seat.

  “Sir, we need to thank you, and ask some directions.” The man on the wagon seat half rose as if to swing down, but rapidly resumed his seat as Lorenz whirled his horse, shouting at them.

  “Didn't y'all hear the man? You all aren't wanted here. This land will starve you all to death if y'all try to farm it. There'd better be food in that wagon. There's no time to put n a crop this year. Go back to where you all came from.” Lorenz swung his horse back towards the ranch and lashed at the hindquarters with his reins.

  Randall moved his horse closer, and saw the stricken look on their faces. “You should be safe for now. What type of directions do you need?”

  He noted the sweat pouring off the man, wetting his shirt, his face, even the forearms. The woman had her arms wrapped around the baby as though protection was still needed. The young man on the horse looked ready to vomit. None of their clothes were too clean, but trail dirt would account for that.

  The man took off his hat and used his forearm to wipe the sweat away and then replaced the hat. “I'm Frank Gavin and this is my missus. According to the folks in Arles, after I passed that ranch back there I was to go about a mile or two and turn on a track toward the foothills. There's a spring up there that is part of our claim. We've gone about a mile, but there's no road.” He did not say the six hundred and forty acres I filed on.

  “Yes, that's true, just drive for the high ground and look for the spring. No one lives in that direction, so there's no need for roads. There are animals moving through there. You'll find you will need to build a fence to protect your crops. I'm surprised you didn't choose the land next to Schmidt's Corner. There is water there that's less likely to run dry at the end of summer.”

  “The man at the County assured me that it was cooler up there. My missus finds this heat bad for the young 'un. Thanks for the help, young man, and be sure to thank your pa.”

  He seated himself on the wagon and started the team towards the foothills. His woman nodded her head, but did not smile. The young man herding the pig mouthed a “thanks,” and turned with the wagon.

  “Why did y'all help them?” demanded Kendall of his brother as they rode toward the ranch.

  “It seemed the Christian thing to do.”

  “Huh, and that's why Pawpaw did what he did?”

  “Our father does as he pleases.” Randall's words were terse. He was having a difficult time reconciling what he thought his father was going to do and with the outcome of today's encounter until he realized that his father was clever enough to know that the people in Arles had deliberately sent the homesteaders here. Like him, they figured his father would kill anyone that crossed his land. Instead, it was Uncle Martin that was going to destroy the homesteaders: a fact that didn't make sense. Randall had always assumed Uncle Martin followed his father's lead.

  “When do y'all think Uncle Martin will cool down?” Kendall preferred spending any leisure time with the Rolfe brothers rather than with his own.

  “Whenever our father tells him he made a mistake and should have joined him in killing four innocent people today.”

  The rest of the ride was silent. As they pulled up at the barn used for stabling the horses, they heard the sound of rocks crashing somewhere behind the washhouse.

  “Pawpaw's really mad,” commented Kendall.

  “Whatev
er he planned didn't turn out like he wanted.” Randall had regained most of his confidence in his belief that his father was the archetypical robber baron.

  In silence the young men unsaddled and headed for the house. Supper would be served within an hour and their mother did not allow for anyone missing a meal when all were present.

  Toni greeted them as they walked in. She was dressed in a blue, light cotton dress with a low collar. She was still slender and her face protected from the harshness of wind, sun, and outdoor work, remained unlined. She'd grown from a beautiful girl into a beautiful, mature woman, and her violet eyes still made men her slaves.

  “What on earth has set your father off? He has been throwing those rocks since he rode in. I even had to have one of the hands care for his horse.”

  Kendall broke into an excited recital of the afternoon events. Randall tried to edge away, but his mother shook her head. “And right now, Uncle Martin won't let any of us come on his place and they can't come here, and all because of a bunch of homesteaders.”

  “One family hardly comprises a bunch, Kendall. Why do y'all suppose they sent them into the foothills? The ground isn't very good there.”

  “I'm assuming someone at the county courthouse thought of it. The sheriff will undoubtedly be out to see if they survived our father's wrath. They've hated us Yankees for years.” Randall answered the question as Kendall just shrugged.

  “Y'all are probably right, Randall. Otherwise only a Mexican family or a Negroid family could live on that land, unless they are poor white trash. Is that what they were?”

  “Mother, your perception of humanity is worse than father's.” He stalked towards the stairs.

  “Randall Matthew MacDonald, y'all are impertinent. Y'all will apologize to me right now.”

  Randall turned back to her before speaking, his voice as stiff as his body. “My apologies, Mother. I should not have spoken in that manner.”

  “Very well, supper will be served at its regular time.” She swept into and through the dining room to enter the kitchen. Lorenz would be upset over Martin and their friendship. She knew he would turn to her for solace and she needed to order a bath with perfumed oils.

  Randall took the stairs two at a time. He was disgusted with his quick acquiescence to his mother's demand, but he knew his mother had to be placated or it would mean an angry father. Father angry was something the years had taught him to avoid. He spent the next thirty minutes with his law books. When the sound of rocks slapping into each other ended, he headed downstairs and into the washhouse. As he suspected he found his father there, the man was stripped and ready to pour cold water over his sweating body. For a moment, he was speechless. It was always difficult to realize his father was so muscular, and when Lorenz turned the scar running from the neck downward was far more visible than the one on his face. It was as though he had kept that portion of the scar to remind himself of the horrors when separated from his family.

  Lorenz's grey eyes narrowed at the sight of his oldest son.

  “Y'all want something?”

  “I'm still not certain as to why you permitted the homesteaders to continue towards what you consider your land.” It irritated Randall that he had arrived at the same incorrect assumption as those yahoos in Arles.

  “And y'all need confirmation that I am evil incarnate.” The words came softly into Randall's mind as his father dumped first one bucket of water and then another over his head.

  Randall found he had no words. All the resentment he'd meant to unleash wasn't possible. He watched as Lorenz shook his head and grabbed a towel. Finally Randall spoke.

  “You will have to admit that it wasn't exactly in character.”

  “It appears y'all know nothing about my character. What I said out there is true. The land will defeat them. They might have been able to hang on had they filed next to Schmidt's Corner, but up in those rocky hills? They'll be lucky to have one good crop in five years. Grandpa Schmidt had farming land in Missouri. He showed it to me. Ran it through his fingers and had me smell of it. That soil up there doesn't compare. To kill them would be a sin.”

  “The other times then, you don't consider sinning?”

  Lorenz pulled on his summer linen underwear before answering and reaching for his shirt. “The other times were fulfilling my intent to continue living. Neither the senior nor the junior in that group are a threat to my existence.” 'Unless they stumble onto the Golden One.' The last part was in mindspeak.

  “Father, has it occurred to you that the people in Arles deliberately sent them here.”

  Lorenz buttoned his shirt before replying. “Very good, Randall, y'all have picked the exact reason they thought they knew where to go. When do y'all think the sheriff will be here?”

  “Since they want to find dead bodies, I believe by tomorrow or the next day.”

  Lorenz smiled. “They won't bother. They're relying on the woman and youngster making it back. They don't believe I'd kill them too.” He hastily pulled on his denims and then sat to pull on his boots.

  'Is your mother very upset?' The words were in his mind again. Damn, his father insisted he practice the Justine skill.

  'She didn't seem to be.' He used mindspeak to answer. To Randall, the mindspeak was a reminder that the ability came from his father; not his mother.

  “Good, let's go eat.” Lorenz spoke aloud. Then he switched to mindspeak as they started for the house, Lorenz carrying the guns he'd ridden out with. 'Have y'all changed your mind about my character?'

  'I'm in the process of modifying it.' Randall answered in kind and both fell silent.

  Chapter 12: Young James Conducts a Service

  Tom Jackson, his wooden leg clunking against the floor, led the way out of the saloon and leaned on the hitching post railing to rest his good leg. It was becoming harder and harder each year to move with or without crutches. Thank God, his boy was big enough to do the iron work. Tom spent more and more time at Jesse's drinking away the pain: the pain of his missing leg and the pain of a controlling wife.

  Tillman, a lanky rancher, and two of his hands brought their beer mugs with them and stood alongside of Jackson. Jessie Owens preferred standing near the door of his saloon. He'd taken off his apron and slapped a hat over his bald head. The September morning sun still beat down with a ferociousness that would not let up.

  “Y'all sure this is when the fireworks start?” asked Tillman, tipping back his hat to look at the small church sitting catty-corner across the street. “Emily ain't never said much about how they do things.”

  “Yep, they're through with the sermon and what they call their liturgy music. Mrs. Jackson's quit playing the organ so she can take communion with the rest. That's when the Pastor serves the bread and wine.”

  Tom's stories of his wife's Lutheran faith and the goings on in the church where the preacher man spoke in German, the congregation sang in German, baptized babies, and served wine instead of grape juice made good conversation for everyone to speculate as to what really went on and what was being said.

  “Olga told me that Pastor James was not going to serve it to MacDonald or Rolfe. I almost went just to see the expressions on their faces, but, hell, then I remembered. I won't be at the altar because I ain't Lutheran. I'd be watching their backs. Having a decent size drink the honest way seemed a lot better to me.”

  Jackson's memory of the service sequence was accurate. Pastor James Wilhelm Rolfe, once called Young James, stood in front of the congregation, clad in his black monk's robe and surplice, his hands gripping the communal plate. His sermon had been a long exposition of St. John's first epistle, Chapter Three, where the disciple admonishes all to “…love one another. He that hateth his brother is a murderer.” His thinning blond hair was carefully combed, his slender body leaning forward when he expounded upon its meaning among Christians. He enjoyed the experience of watching his brother Martin's face becoming a deep shade of red under the tanned skin. Lorenz, he surmised, must be the better poker pl
ayer as his face did not change. Only those strange grey eyes became colder and colder.

  Pastor Rolfe was taking great satisfaction in knowing that he was causing both Martin and Lorenz to squirm inside. Those two were proud, stiff-necked men who continued to sit side-by-side in the front pew reserved for men. It was a custom their fathers started long before the quarrel and neither would sit behind the other. This meant they would be side-by-side when kneeling in front of him and he, James, as Pastor could deliver his edict. All their superior ways while they were growing up and lording it over him would be avenged.

  As Pastor Rolfe finished saying the words of the Sacrament, he turned to face the small congregation. Like the rest of the service and the hymns, the words were in German.

  “All who have prepared themselves are asked to come forward and receive the body and blood of our Lord, Jesus Christ.”

  He watched with intensifying anticipation as the men filed up to the kneeling rail curved around the altar while the women remained seated. He then bowed to the men.

  As the men returned the bow to the Pastor and the cross, Olga Jackson (nee Rolf) moved away from the organ sitting by the north wall lined with a row of windows. It was time to be among the women. Her brown hair was parted down the middle and pulled into a tight bun, her face tanned by the Texas sun framed brown eyes and lips that remained a raspberry color. The grey taffeta swished around the floor as she settled her matronly figure on the pew next to her daughter, eight-year-old Bertha. Gerde Schmidt, dressed as always in severe black, looked like a dried walnut with deep wrinkles cutting across her face. Emily (Tillman) Plank was on the other side tending her two babies, three-year-old Arthur and one-year-old Mildred.

  The total of women numbered six with the visiting Mina Rolfe, Lorenz's sister, and now her sister-in-law. Her other sister-in-law, Brigetta, had produced so many sons that it took two pews for the women and children which now included two-year-old Hans Rolf, Martin and Brigetta's last child. Toni's girl, Melissa, and her niece, Christina, Martin's girl, would tend to the younger girls and boys while the women were at the altar.