Chronicles Of The Maca Collection

Chapter 11

MacDonald and Rolfe strode out of the filing office with Matthew Rutledge, an attorney who had been representing them. MacDonald towered over the six-foot tall Rutledge and the other men on the street. MacDonald and Rutledge were dressed in the suits of the 1840"s: heavy dark woolen suits with wide lapels, a double-layered vest over a white shirt with stand-up collar and the properly tied string bowtie. MacDonald wasn"t certain whether he would choke or not. It was a wonderment how Earth beings wore undergarments, summer and winter. They put on layers of clothes without showing signs of extreme stress. In the West, men wore boots or the brogan type shoes and they did all manner of exertion in the hot, muggy weather without dropping from heat exhaustion.

Rolfe was still dressed in his buckskins and moccasins. He had adopted a gray, wide brimmed hat during his trader years rather than the fur caps he had worn as a trapper. They had just filed the deed to the Ortega Spanish land grant and their respective brands. The grant had been purchased from the state as Texas had insisted on retaining all public lands before being annexed into the United States. The deed and filing documents were in MacDonald"s valise. At the corner of Congress and Pecan Streets they shook hands.

“Thank ye, Mr. Rutledge.”

“My pleasure, Mr. MacDonald. Remember, should you ever need an attorney, we are able to handle all manner of contracts.”

Rolfe cut a chaw of tobacco and nodded at the man. He had let MacDonald carry the bulk of the conversation. People respected Mac, accent or not, but they took his accent for stupidity or labeled him as Dutch. The latter had ended in fights at times. He had no reason to antagonize this man, and so he let any misconception continue.

“Now we need to take those legal papers to a safe place,” he said once they were alone on a street crowded with wagons, surreys, and men in business suits hurrying from one location to another. “Then we need to celebrate, but damn if I can think of a safe place where we both can celebrate at the same time.”

“Neither can I.” Both spoke in German on the theory that fewer people would understand them. “I suggest we eat and then ride out of town before we decide how to do this. We need to go to Arles next and hire a surveyor. Perhaps we can toss a coin to determine who celebrates this evening. We can dine quite well before we decide.”

“I have a better idea. We celebrate when we get back to St. Louis. Then I can set Frau Rolfe"s mind at ease and explain that we will be moving in a year or two. She has enough money until we get there. We aren"t expected back until spring.”

“There is one thing I wish to do before starting back.”

Rolfe looked at his friend. MacDonald"s face was set and he was staring straight ahead.

“And what would that be, Mac?”

“I need to visit a whorehouse, a respectable one. If you wish to celebrate this evening, I"ll guard our deeds and the remaining funds. I will wait until tomorrow evening.”

Rolfe considered. Living with a native woman a few months while trapping, never bothered his religious beliefs. The tribe didn"t consider the arrangement immoral if he left enough trade goods and meat for the family, but he had avoided whorehouses. He was married and whores usually harbored a disease. He did not wish to take that back to Clara. MacDonald had visited houses when flush, but for some reason never seemed to contact one of the diseases, not even clap.

“Why don"t we both go to the whorehouse? I"ll have a drink while you finish your business and then we can ride out and take turns guarding each other.”

“You might be drunk by the time I finish. I intend to visit every w***e in the establishment, perhaps more than once.”

“That"s a pipe dream, Mac. No man can do that.”

They entered their hotel and collected their belongings for the trail. The stables were a few blocks away, set among a wainwright, a blacksmith, tanners, and lard merchants. The stench was everywhere, but no one seemed to notice anymore than they noticed the grey air drifting over the city from people cooking with wood or coal.

A few blocks away from the stable, they stopped at a large restaurant where men wearing suits were seen entering and leaving. They ordered steaks and hash browns with gravy. Both ordered beer.

“I have heard they have seafood and much fancier houses down in San Antonio or Galveston.” MacDonald"s voice had a longing in it.

“We don"t have time to go that far. What"s the matter with you Mac? You"re acting like you want to fling away everything we just gained.”

MacDonald attacked the steak trying to find words to explain to his friend that frontier food was not Thalian food. How could he explain the Thalian need for the caress of another being or how emotions transferred physically and mentally between Thalians? Every bedding with a prostitute had left that need unfulfilled and a steady fire had grown inside of him. He had never had his First Bedding rite, although Leta, an older female from Donnick"s Enforcers had taken pity on him and instructed him in certain matters while granting him a bedding. When he returned he would reward that lassie if she still lived.

When no good words emerged, he changed the subject. “I"ll camp tonight, but tomorrow I am going to the whorehouse Rutledge recommended.”

“All right, Mac. We go there together tonight. I"ll have a drink and wait for you.”

“It will take me awhile.”

Rolfe snorted and downed his beer. “You"re crazy, Mac.”