Gather The Children (Chronicles of the Maca Book 2) (31 page)

Late in the month of August, Olga pulled her buckboard to a stop in front of Tom Jackson's cabin. The noonday sun beat down with unrelenting heat and beads of water ran down the sides of her face. She knew the horses would announce her arrival. Tom would be in the tavern, if only for companionship. She was almost twenty and no young beau was on the horizon. The young men in Arles would have nothing to do with a Yankee girl, or one that went to a church that baptized infants and had preachers that talked in a foreign language. She pulled a small bundle from under the seat and strode into the cabin after knocking lightly. Once inside she wrinkled her nose at the smell, but set about her task. She knew Tom would be arriving shortly. They would have heard her enter town, and would soon investigate why someone hadn't gone to Schmidt's or the tavern.

Olga was right. Tom came clumping in on his crutch just as she finished her chore. The wooden leg was too painful to wear except on special days. He stood open mouth watching the bright, flowered curtains flapping at the one window. “Miss Olga, what are y'all doing?”

Olga put both hands on her hips and turned. “I have hung curtains. They are made from some left over material. Vhat do y'all think?” The 'vat' betrayed her emotions but she kept her face expectant.

“Why, why, they look fine, Miss Olga, but ain't they a little fancy for this place?” He looked around at the dish laden table, the unmade bed, and he was suddenly aware that there was far more dirt in here than in her clean kitchen.

Olga turned back to look at the curtains and slowly pivoted to look at the one room. “It would not take much to make it look different in here.” She lifted her head, “I need to know your intentions, Mr. Jackson.”

Tom swallowed. He felt his eyes must be twice their normal size. “Miss Olga, my intentions are truly honorable, but, well, it's been hard to earn a living just for me. I couldn't speak for y'all now.”

Olga looked at the sweat appearing on his forehead with a certain satisfaction. “Mr. Jackson, the war is over, and things are getting better. There will be freighter wagons going through here at least twice a year now, maybe more often. Papa and Mr. MacDonald will be bringing in more horses to shoe, and they are going to need y'all to build a special wagon for them. Y'all can do wainwright work, ja?”

“Yes, ma'am, the tools are out in my shop.”

“There, see, y'all will do much better this year. When I marry, the chickens come with me. My mother's dishes and household goods, I also bring. They are mine.” She snapped the last sentence out.

Tom suddenly had visions of an egg every morning for breakfast and quickly put the thought out of mind. He made another attempt, not sure how to deflect this obviously determined, young woman.

“Miss Olga, since I came back, I, ah, if y'all haven't notice, I mean, well, look at me, woman. I'm but half a man now.”

Olga straightened. “Mr. Jackson, don't du all ever say such a thing again.” She quickly adjusted her English. “Y'all are a fine figure of a man, and so much more than those scraggly, bearded youngsters that come through here.” She was not about to mention that she and Daniel had kissed at one of the get-togethers at the MacDonald's. He had been young and hard, but too demanding and Olga had sense enough to know that he would be riding on.

Tom stared at the short, plump woman dressed in a brown and white checkered day dress. She looked as normal as usual, but her eyes did seem brighter, and there was more color in her cheeks, but being a man he did not think of that. He saw a comely, young woman offering herself to him and he swallowed as Olga continued.

“Are y'all going to ask me to marry y'all?”

Tom was reduced to stammering. “Yes, ma'am, I surely do so intend to ask your pa for your hand, just as soon…” And Olga broke in on him.

“Do you believe in Jesus as your Savior?” Inside her stomach turned at her boldness.

“Well, yes, ma'am, of course. Who doesn't?”

Olga smiled, pleased at his response. “I will continue to be a Lutheran. Y'all may attend services with me, or go to a church you like.” She did not say if there's ever one around. “I will raise our children as Lutherans. Are y'all in agreement?”

“Whatever y'all want, ma'am.” Tom fervently believed in the theory that women did most of the child rearing.

Olga moved closer, and put her arms around his neck. “Den I vill marry y'all.”

Tom wasn't sure how it happened, but he was kissing her and his crutch was on the floor. He straightened, and put his hands on her shoulders for balance. “I, I guess, I'd better go ask your Pa for your hand.”

Olga was very flushed, and her brown eyes were sparkling. She smiled and nodded. “We can go in my buckboard.”

“No, ma'am, we won't.” Tom was firm on this issue. “I'll hitch up my buggy, and we'll tie your rig and horses to the back.”

“Good. We'll go into Arles with Papa when they go after the material for the wagon. We'll get the license then.”

Tom stared at her. At least she hadn't argued about taking his rig.

Lorenz and Martin were sorting through the trousers in Kasper's store when they heard the sound of approaching horses and they turned their attention to the window to watch a wagon pull to a stop. “Lookie there,” said Martin his blue eyes suddenly gleaming.

The new arrival's gaunt team stood with bowed heads, half-heartedly switching their tails at the flies. Two more horses were tethered at the back of the wagon which had once been red, but was now faded like a barn on some war-deserted farm. Dirty canvas was lashed over the ribs extending from side to side. The man handling the horses looked to be of average height and possibly middle-aged when he jumped down, dust swirling around him and off of him. The next to step down was a woman clad in a cotton sweat, stained dress. She wore a sunbonnet and her figure was that of a mature woman.

Lorenz was staring at the three sunbonnet capped girls. One looked to be older than him and another at least in her teens by her figure. He really wasn't good at figuring female ages; he just knew this was better than anything else that had happened in Schmidt's Corner for awhile. He paid no attention to the smallest girl. She probably wasn't as old as Young James.

Kasper was the only adult male in the store. The others were at Jesse's, reviving themselves after raising the walls, setting and nailing the heavy roof beams, and then placing the church rafters into place. The Master Carpenter, Fredrick Richmann, from Houston and his apprentice, Frank Hegman, had secured the rafters and hurried after them. The men stopped drinking as they heard the sounds of the wagon in the street and halting at the general store. They piled outside for a look. MacDonald and Rolfe looked long enough to decide they would finish their beers before investigating the new comers.

The man strode into the store followed closely by his family. All of them blinked their eyes at the sudden lack of sunlight and the man glared at the two young men. He then made straight for the counter where Kasper had been reading while waiting for Lorenz or Martin to make a selection.

“Howdy, my name is Shelton and I was told there was good land with plenty of water here abouts. Y'all reckon y'all can direct me?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shelton.” Kasper extended his hand and they shook. “My name is Kasper Schmidt. It's good to have a newcomer. The land around town, however, is privately owned. Mr. Tillman, one of the ranchers, may know whether the ranch across from him is available or not.”

Lorenz and Martin were trying to edge closer without tripping over each other and still look like they were searching through the merchandise. The teenage girl managed to sneak a look, offer a shy smile, and show a glimpse of brown eyes peering from beneath the bonnet.

Martin was so intrigued he decided a diversion was necessary to get her attention again. He held up a pair of trousers that were obviously meant for a much larger man and asked, “Hey, Unkle, how much is this pair?”

The man at the counter stopped his questions long enough to turn his head and frown at the two. His woman and girls seemed to cluster around him, the woman not even glancing at them. The littlest girl took a quick peek before hiding her face in her mother's long skirt.

The man turned his attention back to Kasper. “Do y'all mean there's no open land? Ah wuz told there wuz plenty of free land with flowing water here. Y'all do know the land around here, don't y'all?”

“Yes, it's true that there is land with water, but you either need to go over to the saloon and ask Mr. Tillman if he has the deed to his brother's place or if the ranch is even for sale. Mr. Rolfe and Mr. MacDonald own the land on the other side of town. You would need to ask them where their boundary lines are. Another option is to continue on to Arles, the county seat, and find out where the open ranges are. The recent war has caused a great many problems in determining where the property lines are or if there are any of the owners left.”

The new arrival had a puzzled look on his face and then it changed to disgust. “Y'all sound like a damn Yankee to me,” and he swiveled and pointed his finger at the two young men. “And yu uns stay clear away from my girls if you all are damn Yankees.” He swung back to Kasper. “Y'all hear? Keep 'em away if they're your damn nephews.”

Lorenz's eyebrows went up and Martin had a definite disappointed look on his face.

Rolfe, with MacDonald behind him, opened the door to the store as the man's tirade continued. “By God, if y'all are damn Yankees, I don't know why y'all are even alive. Maybe somebody ought to form a committee.”

Kasper did not see Lorenz start for the counter, but Kasper refused to be intimidated. “Sir, you are using language unsuitable for the ears of children and women. Please, leave my establishment immediately.”

“By God, they're my women, and I'll talk how I want.” The man was leaning forward over the counter. His women were taking small steps backward.

“Vat ist? Some sort of fight?” Rolfe had stepped in the door first.

The man swung around and was unimpressed with Rolfe's height and buckskins. “By God, a foreigner dressed like an injun. Y'all should learn to speak our language.”

“Und du should learn to speak American!” Rolfe's blue eyes turned hard and glinting, his hands automatically curling into fists.

Shelton almost went for him when he realized MacDonald would probably interfere and he halted. He stood looking back and forth at the two and then shrugged. He turned back to Kasper. “Where do I find those two men y'all said would know about boundaries?”

Kasper fought to repress a smile. “They are standing right by the door. Mr. MacDonald and Mr Rolfe, this is Mr. Shelton. He came in to ask about land, but he was just about to leave.”

Shelton decided to try one more time. “Is there anybody in this town that's a white man?” He glared at MacDonald as he asked the question.

“Fortunately, whether they were North or South, there tis nay like ye, and ye are beginning to annoy me. I suggest ye continue on to Arles. They twill be happy to accommodate ye.”

Shelton snorted. “This Tillman he mentioned, be he a Yank or a true son of the South?”

“Mr. Tillman wore the grey, and ye twill find him in the saloon.”

All sorts of emotions spread across Shelton's face. It meant leaving his women unprotected in the wagon in the midst of these, to his mind, dangerous people. “And how far out does your land go?” His question was a sneer.

“Oh, tis at least a day or two of riding in all directions.” MacDonald's face was hard, but a small smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth and his brown eyes were hard. “And if ye err where ye set up camp, I or Mr. Rolfe twill move ye off. I suggest a ride into Arles. Mr. Schmidt twill sell ye enough supplies for five days travel if that tis what ye need for yere family.”

Shelton's face became splotched with red, but he had correctly gauged the futility of attacking the giant in front of him. “By God, y'all are right. I need the county to help me against the likes of you all.” He stomped out the door, his family following close behind.

“Vell, dot's dot.”

Shelton, however, had other ideas. He stopped at the saloon and found Tillman. Tillman was more than happy to sell him his brother's ranch and use part of the money to buy new shoes for his girls; new shoes that Kasper just happened to have in the back, and he smoothly explained to Tillman that he hadn't had time to put them out yet.

“He's just bitter about the war,” was Tillman's explanation to the others as he helped himself to the last of the food set on the outside tables. Tillman had forgotten any animosity of Yankees he might have harbored and had brought his family along when help was needed for raising the heavy timbers of the church roof. After all, Kasper had carried them through the years of fighting for the glorious cause, and MacDonald and Rolfe had hired him for the drive; plus, they let him add fifty of his own herd. “I think he just let his big flapping mouth overload his humming bird—ah—behind before he thought about what he was saying. It'll be nice for Janey having another woman within a couple of miles for a change.”

Janey hid a smile behind her hand rather than let the gaping holes in her gums show. The war years had been hard, and there were few teeth left in her mouth. “There's even a girl Emily's age,” she simpered. “And they're Baptists.”

Janey's pleasant plans didn't work out. Whatever companionship Shelton felt for a fellow Confederate, letting his “women” visit was not something he allowed. He refused to let anyone that associated with damn Yankees to visit his place.

Tillman also left out Shelton's exchange with Jesse Owens. Shelton delivered an ultimatum before he left. “And y'all can tell those damn Yankees that they don't mess with me or come near my place. By God, if I ever find 'em alone, ah'll deal with 'em.”

Jesse shook his head. “Y'all are going to have to tell them yourself.”

“Y'all mean y'all are still going to serve them? Maybe I need to go into Arles and find some real men.”

“Mister, the folks in Arles tried that once. I reckon they'll think twice about trying it again.” Jesse began to take a strong dislike to the man.

Shelton turned on his heel and stalked out, stopping long enough at the doorway to turn and point his finger at Jesse and bellow, “Y'all tell 'em not to show up alone when I'm here. I'll show 'em why we should have won.”

Even if he had heard the tirade, Rolfe would not have changed his habits. He continued to drop in at Jesse's place whenever he wasn't out branding or hunting. Part of the work load had been shifted to MacDonald's hired hand, Ramon Gonzales. Rolfe felt that by selling his cattle he had provided for his family for decades to come and he could relax. Rolfe's relaxing was interrupted one afternoon when Shelton rode in to have a horse re-shod and then headed to Jesse's for a beer while he waited.

Rolfe's presence put Shelton into a bad mood and he didn't bother to order as he asked, “Don't y'all ever air it out in here? Seems y'all would improve the air if y'all only let white men in.”

Rolfe carefully set his mug down and asked, “Inside or outside?”

Shelton came at Rolfe swinging his right fist at the jaw. Too late he realized the older man had moved more swiftly than he thought the years would allow, and he took a fist to the jaw. Before he could recover, Rolfe swung again at the midsection and doubled Shelton over. When Shelton straightened, Rolfe slugged him in the jaw again. As Shelton hit the floor, Rolfe turned back to his beer and a boggled eyed Jesse. He waited patiently for Shelton to stir.

Within a few minutes Shelton pushed himself up. He sat on the floor and shook his head. When he looked up, Rolfe was standing there knife in hand. “Du come for me again und I slit du up der brisket like a scheine hund. Now get out and stay out vhenever I am here.”

Shelton may not have understood the German contempt for pig dogs, but the contempt in Rolfe's voice was clear and the danger of an early death quite apparent. He slowly rose off the floor and left without a word; hate for Rolfe and anyone connected with him curling his gut and eventually curdling his mind.