Chronicles Of The Maca Collection

Chapter 23

Anna awoke the next morning and realized that Mr. MacDonald had breakfast started. Then she realized her ears were not sore, but her hair was matted again, either from the salve or the drainage. She held her hands over her ears and pain did not streak through her head. She walked to the area they used for the latrine for nature was demanding. Then she washed her hands in the river. When the water settled, she lifted the braids to see if an image was reflected. There was none. Still it felt better and she walked back to the camp area.

“Thank you, Mr. MacDonald. The salve seems to be working. There is no pain this morning.” She did not dare trust her words to English.

“Would ye like me to verify that?”

“No, thank you, Mr. MacDonald, but I am grateful. Will this deplete your supply?”

The half smile was on his lips and the amusement in his eyes. How could he tell her that on board the Golden One was a machine that extruded a stream into the tin upon command?

Golden One“No, I have a supply hidden away at home.” He returned to cooking the fat back. “The coffee tis done and the biscuits from last night are in the box. Take a plate and we"ll eat. I"d like to be on the trail ere full daylight.”

They spoke very little while on the trail. MacDonald rode his huge black horse as he watched their backs, the sides, and checked for Indian sign while she drove the cart with their gear. He went on hunting forays to augment their diet with antelope, rabbit, deer, or an occasional grouse. He kenned that Zark, as he had named his horse, could outrun most Indian ponies, but the sturdy mules never. They could outlast a horse, require less water, and less expensive feed, but they weren"t known for speed unless specifically bred for racing.

Evenings Anna would be busy with her sewing and MacDonald with tending the animals and cooking. She insisted on doing the plates and utensils whether it was water or sand they had for cleaning. She winced when she heard the ferry fee, but MacDonald was not concerned. He insisted the man give him a receipt.

“Tis the only way the Army twill pay me back.”

Once, when they were near a town, MacDonald asked if she wished to stop and buy anything else.

“No, I will not go into town dressed as a man.” Her face was set again. How did she tell him she had not finished the underskirt? She couldn"t and didn"t. Only married women talked to their husbands about such things. He did not ask again.

One afternoon found them near a river of goodly width, but not overly deep. MacDonald motioned to a stand of cottonwood trees and willows, and pulled up his horse beside her when she stopped.

“This tis a very pleasant place to camp for the bank slopes downward and ye twould be well hidden whilst ye bathe. We are about four days out of Schmidt"s Corner. The river tis less clean and deep farther on, and the banks nay as high.”

Anna stared at him. “So close?” Her voice was almost a whisper. She continued to use German.

“Aye, we"ve been on the trail for seventeen days. It"s been a grueling trip for ye, but I thought ye wished to be back among yere relatives as quickly as possible.” He noted that a bit of weight was back on her skinny frame.

She stared at the reins in her hands. “If I change now, my clothes will be dirty from being on the ground.” She knew that Gerde would have no clothes her size even if they welcomed her. Her trail clothes were filthy. She drew in a deep breath.

“Perhaps it would be best to take me back to that town. I could find a job as a laundress. Then if Kasper and Gerde want me to come there, they can write a letter.”

MacDonald"s eyes widened. “Mrs. Lawrence, I canna go into Schmidt"s Corner and tell them I brought ye all the way from the wilds of West Texas and then left ye in Arles. They twould be outraged.”

“There are other people there where they live, is that not true?”

“Yes, but Mrs. Schmidt, Mrs. Rolfe, Mrs. Phillips, and Mrs. Hernandez are the only adult ladies. The other men do not have a wife. Mrs. Jackson died some years ago, and the other families live outside the town.”

“I cannot go where I am not wanted.”

“Mrs. Lawrence, if ye do nay go with me, Kasper will come for ye. Why put everyone to that trouble?”

“After all the trouble I have already put you through, is that what you mean?”

“Nay, that tis nay fair.” His voice was rumbling out in anger and exasperation.

For a moment she was silent and then she smiled. MacDonald was awestruck. The hard planes of her face seemed to melt and her face was transformed. The smile brought a glow to her skin and to her eyes. It was as though she were a different person; someone you wanted to know and trusted immediately.

“Mr. MacDonald, that was not fair. I am sorry.” She put out her hand. It was a gesture she regretted for suddenly his large hand had closed around hers and he was smiling.

“Ye twill be happy to ken that Kasper has told me that one of yere church men twill be coming through.”

“Oh, I want to talk with one. I need to know if it is all right to divorce a man who plotted to have his family killed by Indians.”

“Dear Gar, how do ye ken that?”

For a moment she tightened her lips. “Mr. Lawrence took his riding horse to do haying and he did not take Daniel with him. I had sent Daniel out to him. He also took the rifle and the shotgun. The Comanche did not kill him, but took Daniel. The first night we camped, Daniel told me that his father had spoke with their leader before riding away. He knew them.”

“It will be difficult to prove in court, but I seem to remember something similar that Mr. Rolfe told me about his and Kasper"s visit to Wooden. I shall ask them when we are there.”

“Thank you, Mr. MacDonald. Would I be able to bath in the river tomorrow evening?”

“Aye, the river tis deep enough and there are willows. It does nay have the high shielding banks.”

“Then I shall wait. Tonight I will wash out my hair and shirt. May I take the soap?”

“Aye, of course, ye can. Why do ye even ask?”

“Because the soap is yours.” She was defiant again.

He handed her the soap. “The nights are getting cooler. Take my jacket and wear it till the shirt dries.”

“I will use my blanket if the coolness bothers me.” She took the soap before walking down the embankment.

At the river she paused and walked closer to the edge. The high banks on the other side waved brown grass and white clouds floated above, sometimes crossing over the path of the sun. Long shadows covered the Earth until the clouds moved forward on their journey. She knelt at the river, ignoring the water that seeped around her knees and removed the leather ties and stuck them in her trouser pocket. She shook out her hair, bent over and began the washing. When the water was clear of soap, she removed the shirt and washed off the surface dirt. Without hot water, a scrub board, or plunger there was no way to completely clean the shirt. At least it would smell better. Before putting it back on, she splashed water under her armpits, soaped them, and rinsed them off with the shirt. She then rinsed the shirt again before putting it on. By now she was shivering.

I should not be shivering. It is because I am so weak, she thought and began to button the shirt. It was a slower process with wet material. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to unsnarl the curls. It was futile without a comb. Thoroughly exasperated she pulled the whole mass forward and braided it. She knew without looking it was a mess. Both ties helped to hold the hair, but there was no way to pull it up as a respectable woman would.

I should not be shivering. It is because I am so weakAt least the effort distracted her attention away from the afternoon"s coolness and she headed back up the embankment. Mr. MacDonald would be wanting his “cleansing.” What a strange choice of words.