Gather The Children (Chronicles of the Maca Book 2) (24 page)

Kasper gave a slight smile and looked at his wife. “Yes, I was worried about her. Can you arrange everything?”

“Aye, twill be my pleasure.”

The two men rode slowly into town, glancing at every burnt out building and the existing run-down ones. “At least there's a bar,” said the smaller, older man. “I do believe that lost shoe of your horse has slowed us too much.”

They pulled up in front of Schmidt's Corner and dismounted. Both were dressed in collarless working shirts, handkerchiefs tied carelessly around the neck, denim trousers, newer Stetsons, and new boots. Both wore guns belted at the lower part of the waist and tied to their thighs. They presented a picture of affluence rarely seen on the few passing, northward migrants. The younger man was taller, broad shouldered, and slim of hip. He tried to hide his pride in the black hair covering his upper lip, but he was young, and kept fingering it. His body and grey eyes seemed to convey movement even when still. The afternoon had barely begun and the street was empty; so empty that no dust hung in the air from anyone else passing by. The younger man looked to his left and the older to his right before they entered the store.

A small, middle-aged woman stood at a doorway into the back of the store, her hands firmly grasping a shotgun. “I don't know you. State your business.” Her face was bitter and the brown eyes hard, when suddenly the barrel slumped downward and her eyes widened. “Mein Gott, Daniel.”

Daniel, surprised by the recognition, remained speechless long enough for the older man to remove his hat. “Ma'am, you must be Mrs. Schmidt. Our employer found out that his father had sent two men here to do bodily harm to you and your husband. We've been sent to prevent that if possible. I hope we are in time and if we are, could we speak to your husband and devise a plan of action.”

Gerde continued staring at the young man and barely whispered, “Du look so much like Kasper. Don't du remember me? Lorenz did.”

“Ma'am,” Collins broke in, “right now time could be very important.”

Gerde straightened herself, the relief of seeing her nephew receded, and doubt about their intentions returned. “You are too late. Those two men are dead.” Her voice was firm again, the German accent retreating.

Outside they could hear the scuffle of boots as though someone was hurrying, yet trying to hide the fact they were approaching.

It was, Collins decided, a community on edge, and the neighbors, whoever they were, were about to help out, probably with guns of their own. Damn, Daniel, why wasn't the young fool saying something.

Daniel obliged. “Mrs. Schmidt, I'm sorry we are so late, but my horse threw a shoe, and we couldn't…”

Gerde snapped at him. “I am your Tante, not Mrs. Schmidt.”

Her stern tone silenced Daniel, and Collins tried again.

“Mrs. Schmidt, I can assure you, we were sent to try and stop a tragedy. I have a letter here from Mr. Jeremiah O'Neal that will explain everything. If you and your husband would be kind enough to read it before your friends and neighbors open fire, I think another shooting can be avoided.” He kept his speech mild, not wanting to frighten the woman.

Gerde, a strong, perceptive woman, realized what was at stake and decided to believe this man. “Ja, you are right. I am Mrs. Schmidt and my husband is indisposed at the moment, but I will speak to our friends.” She stepped towards front door, but paused long enough to give Daniel an order. “Take off your hat. Were you too long with the savages?”

Daniel felt his body stiffen and a slight flush spread over the planes of his face. Who was this woman to call his parents savages? And what in the hell did Tante mean?

Collins suppressed a grin. He wasn't sure what or why O'Neal was paying Daniel, but it was surely too much. He knew the young man had an exaggerated notion of his own abilities. This lady had taken him down a peg and was sure to do so again. “I do recommend you remove your hat,” he said in a low tone. There was a Missouri drawl to his speech cadence, not the exaggerated drawl of a Texan.

Gerde returned. “If I may see the letter, I'll take it to Mr. Schmidt. If he is feeling well enough, he will speak with you both. I know he will make an effort to talk with his nephew.”

Collins reached inside his vest and pulled out the oilskin wrapped letter. “I do hope your husband wasn't wounded in any shootout.”

Gerde accepted the letter. “No, they came in the front like you did, and Mr. Rolfe and Lorenz shot them.” It was a simple, but chilling statement for them to mull on. She disappeared into the doorway without telling them why Kasper was laid up.

“Interesting,” Collins muttered. “Do you have any idea who Mr. Rolfe is?”

“No.” Daniel snapped out. Why should Lorenz get all the glory? He had a vague feeling it was always that way, but his remembrance of that long ago home was practically nil. He'd only been eight-years-old, and his father and mother had both assured him he would forget that early time with a first family. Up until now, he had believed them. He honestly could not remember his white aunt and uncle, nor could he recall with any clarity what his white mother looked like. He did remember fighting with Lorenz, and that seemed all wrong too. He couldn't have been the one on the floor.

“You need to remember that this is their household and they will have more civilized rules than what you've been around. I'd take off that gun belt when she asks. If we're lucky enough to be asked for supper, I aim to take mine off.” His voice was moderate, but he spoke with authority.

Daniel swung around to regard the older man. Red had implied that he was to follow Collins orders during a fight, but he hadn't said anything about letting Collins take the lead in his personal life. “I don't trust anyone. The guns stay on.”

Collins shrugged. He was tired of the trail and their campfire meals. They had pushed the horses and themselves hard to reach Schmidt's Corner before the other two, and they had ridden through or around some fair sized towns. This town did not have a hotel, bathhouse, or an eatery. It was little more than a settlement, and unless Mrs. Schmidt extended an invitation, it looked like another campfire meal and hard ground tonight. Damn the kid for his lack of feelings for meeting family. It wasn't right. He started looking around the store for supplies to take on the way back. It looked like they would need to make a stop at the MacDonald household if they were to find the other kid and convince him to ride back with them. He couldn't figure why his employer wanted another wet-behind-the ears kid, but that wasn't his problem. O'Neal paid regular and the amount was more than fair. This kid wasn't going to mess up his reputation. O'Neal would get his full report.

Gerde came back without the paper and a face softened from speaking with her husband. Her eyes, however, were still guarded and she showed no emotion as she regarded the two of them. “My husband needs to rest. He thanks you for coming and he will write to Mr. O'Neal thanking him.” She drew a deep breath and looked squarely at Daniel. “You are going to go to your mother's now, is that not right?”

Daniel swallowed. “No, ma'am.” He saw no reason to explain he needed to have his horse shod. Collins stepped in when he saw a look of horror on Gerde's face.

“Ma'am, we rode the horses hard to get here, too hard. Daniel needs to get his horse shod before we can go to the MacDonald's place. Until then, we need to water and feed our horses. Is there a place we can do so? If you will kindly give us directions before we leave, we'll be most grateful.”

Gerde looked at him and cocked her head. “You are from Missouri.” It was a statement and a question.

“Yes, ma'am, I'm Jethro Collins from Jefferson County.”

Gerde nodded her head. “We're from Perry County, Missouri.

“There is a river out back which you saw and anyone can use, and we have a stable with some hay. If you stay all night it's fifty cents for each horse. Mr. Schmidt will probably let Daniel's stay for free.” The implication that she would not let Daniel stay for free was clear.

Collins laid four bits on the counter, doffed his hat, and said, “Thank you, ma'am. We'll be back to buy some things for the trail before we leave.”

When they were outside, Daniel looked at the graveyard. “I'm checking that out next. Something wasn't right in there.”

Collins shrugged and walked along. He too felt that Gerde had not said everything, but then, he wasn't family and it must have been a shock to her to see Daniel and not get any acknowledgement. He knew how families grieved for the lost ones, and yet those “lost” who accepted the Indians didn't seem to be as lost as the ones left behind.

Like the town, the graveyard wasn't much. The Schmidt plot held a small grave for a boy that died of typhus in 1858, the Rolfe plot was marked as the grave of Mrs. Rolfe, who died in 1858, and the MacDonald plot had two graves; one a small child's grave and a new unmarked grave. There were other graves in the back; one large mound was new and unmarked. They both stared down at the new grave in the MacDonald plot. “Damn,” said Daniel.

“It doesn't look like there's anyone to take back to Mr. O'Neal,” said Collins. He turned back to the horses. “Standing here won't get us back, or our wages. We'll talk with one or both of the Schmidt's before we leave. Maybe that saloon will have something to eat.”

They watered the horses, and then Daniel took his to have it shod while Collins put his horse in the stable. Collins noted that there were three horses and a mule out in the back yard. When they watered the horses, he'd seen the open back door to the saloon and headed that way. Mrs. Schmidt was out in the garden and he nodded to her. She kept swinging her hoe like there was something personal in her fight with the weeds. A straw-headed kid was carrying firewood up the steps. Gerde swung one more time and walked over to the fence. “Mr. Collins, are you and Daniel planning to stay for supper tonight?”

“Ma'am, nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

“I do not allow guns to be worn at my table.” She threw out the words like a challenge.

“Mrs. Schmidt, I would not dream of doing that in polite society. I would like to be able to place them somewhere inside of the door for any emergency, if that is all right with you and your husband.”

His words seem to mollify her and she nodded her head. “We do not mind a man having a beer or two, but I do not allow drunkenness at our table either.”

“Perfectly understandable, ma'am.” He did not want anything to change her mind about supper. He was sure anyone as competent as Mrs. Schmidt was apt to be a more than competent cook. He tipped his hat again before continuing to the saloon.

Inside the saloon there were no lights this time of day. What light there was came in through the two opened doors and the two small front windows. A man was standing at the bar playing solitaire. If he had been edgy before, he showed no signs of it.

“Afternoon,” said Collins. “What's the chance of a man getting a beer?”

“Right good, I'd say.” The man smiled and took a not too clean glass mug and ran some beer in it, gradually topping the amber liquid with a small head. “That'll be five cents.”

Collins laid a quarter on the counter. “My traveling partner will be in here in a bit. When that's gone, cut us off. I don't want to miss supper with the Schmidt's.”

“A fine couple and a fine cook.”

Collins nodded in satisfaction and took his first sip as Daniel walked in. Owens grinned and poured another beer. Daniel took off his hat long enough to brush the perspiration off and push back the hair trying to curl forward. When he looked around Owens was staring at him with open mouth.

“Something wrong?” asked Daniel.

Owens shook his head. “Are y'all the one called Daniel?”

Collins set his beer down. “How did you know that?”

“Why, it's like looking at Kasper Schmidt with twenty years wiped off his face. It ain't real hard to figure out. Mrs. MacDonald is going to be one happy lady after…” Like Gerde, Owens voice trailed off.

“We saw the grave site in the MacDonald section.” Collins decided a talkative barkeep might provide some information. “We were sent here to try and stop those first two men. It looks like the folks here take care of their own.”

“That's a fact,” said Owens.

“It's easy to see that you've had some problems before. What caused all the fires? Indians?”

Owens leaned forward. “Nope, it was our friends and neighbors from Arles. They were going to drive out the damn Yankees, but forgot that Mr. Jackson and I are Texans. 'Course Mr. Jackson was still in Virginy fighting the damn Yankees, so his house went up in flames along with Rolfe's house, and his place of business got singed a mite before MacDonald and Rolfe got here to help drive them off. By that time everybody was shooting. Even the women folk holed up at Schmidt's. MacDonald carted the organ out of Rolfe's house, but there just wasn't any way to save that house or the rest of Mr. Jackson's old home. That little escapade left some real bitter feelings all around, particularly when young Mr. Jackson came back from Sharpsburg with that missing leg and found his home and dad gone. Then the damn Yankees even take away the name of the battleground where he lost his leg. Now they call it something else up North.”

Antietam?” asked Collins.

“I reckon. They got a funny way of naming things.” Owens refilled the two mugs.

Daniel sipped away and Collins tried to figure out a way to get Owens talking about yesterday's events when Daniel waved a hand at the ear and bent revolver up on the wall.

“That got a story?”

“Sure enough has,” said Owens. “We usually don't get too much excitement here, but this last week has been a real go-getter. It's even been good for business.” He looked approvingly at the two mugs on the counter. “There was a real crowd in here when Blue Diamond dropped off a load of freight for Schmidt's Corner. They was headed up north to some of the German settlements next. This ain't the end of the line even though it looks like it now. It used to be a real thriving community before the War. We had a wainwright along with the blacksmith shop, and they both did a fair to middling business. Malcolm Phillips was the wainwright while the Jackson's did the blacksmithing. There were some other spreads beside Rolfe and MacDonald, but since the War they're the only two of any size. I heard Tillman's still hanging on to his land, but we ain't seen him and his missus for awhile.”