Gather The Children

Chapter 3: Introduction to Civilization-1

Chapter 3: Introduction to CivilizationThe office was heat-hot from the extra bodies: everyone sitting or standing and waiting for more excitement. Franklin had half-hoped Rolfe would have taken his grown cub and leave, but, no, the Dutchman just stood there daring any to ask him to leave. Franklin, like most Americans, heard Deutsch as Dutch and rarely made the correct country connection.

The boy came in first, face set and jaw tightened. MacDonald had evidently rough broke him. MacDonald nodded at Rolfe and the assembled audience, but he spoke directly to Franklin.

“Are we in agreement that the laddie goes home with me, and I send the telegram to Mr. O'Neal, sparing the county the expense?”

Franklin would have liked to reject MacDonald's offer. Reality, however, was the small jail he ran had no extra room, and since the South's capitulation, money for rations was nonexistent. If the present United States judge found out the gold taken in the robbery and death of O'Neal involved Confederate gold, the man might not consider it a crime at all.

“All right, MacDonald, but if I find out that there is a valid warrant, I'll be out after him.”

“Aye,” MacDonald nodded again. “Good day, gentlemen.”

“Ah want my guns.” Stubbornness slashed through the voice as Lorenz protested.

MacDonald looked at Franklin. “We'll take them with us.”

Rolfe picked up the arsenal and moved towards the door. MacDonald clamped his hand down on the boy's shoulder, gently nudging him on his way. “Ye are nay to touch a weapon for a while.”

Lorenz breathed deep and looked longingly at his guns and knives, then shrugged. Outside they paused for MacDonald to introduce the young man who had stood at the back. “Lorenz, this tis Young Rolfe. Martin tis his given name. Martin, this tis Lorenz, Anna's laddie.”

Martin extended his hand, blue eyes beaming welcome and in a firm, baritone voice said, “Good to finally meet y'all, Lorenz.”

Startled, Lorenz shook his hand. Martin appeared to be a couple years older than he, a blond, younger version of Rolfe without the mustache and teeth browned by chewing tobacco.

“My poys und me vill get some eats.” Rolfe pointed to Young James up on the wagon seat. The wagon was a sturdy rectangle made of fading, once painted, green slabs of wood, and a solid unimaginative design. Rolfe stored the weapons in a locked box in the back of the wagon and he and Martin climbed aboard. “Meet du in front of Stanley's place.”

“Aye, friend Rolfe. Lorenz, we go this way.” MacDonald waved toward the section of town where the freight station stood.

“We're gonna walk?” Lorenz couldn't believe it. A cattleman walking instead of riding was not natural. He had seen a huge riding horse; one of the two horses tethered to the wagon, and figured it had to be MacDonald's. It was an animal big enough for him.

“Aye, we twill come back for yere horse.”

Lorenz fell in step rather than be dragged or propelled along. There was still no way out as there were far too many people, and why the hell was Martin glad to meet him?

“Ah ain't neveh goin' to see that gold, am ah?”

“Who kens? Mayhap in a few weeks.”

“Huh, an' iffen it does come, who gets it, y'all?”

“Nay, twill be yeres.”

Lorenz didn't believe him, but didn't argue. They passed people hurrying to be done with their chores before the midday heat. Women would draw away and wrinkle their noses. Lorenz seemed oblivious to their behavior, but he knew they were afraid of him. Afraid, just like his ma would be when she saw him again. Why the hell was this big bastard taking him there? For Lorenz, it was enough to know that she was alive and safe. Then again, maybe she wasn't safe; not with this big bastard beating on her. Maybe he should swing by there once he got away.

A huge blue star hung over the freighting office, proclaiming to one and all that this was the Blue Star line. The blue star identified the office as the town's reason for being. Men were constantly going in and out with orders to be filled, teams to be tended, harnesses repaired, the shifting, stacking, and re-routing of trade goods. This part of the country's network of merchandise distribution was as yet undisturbed by railroads. Freight was hauled in from every major point by wagons, mules, and men. The building housed the merchandise, wagons, loading docks, separate quarters for the teams and men, and in the office, the indispensable telegraph. Town women had agitated for the telegraph to be moved to a more genteel location, but economics kept the telegraph were it was needed.

“Hallo, Mac,” said the man at the desk. He was long, lanky, dark haired, and mustached. Whatever animosity the town felt towards Yankees, this man didn't. Business was business. “Y'all planning to carry your goods home now?”

“Nay now, but in a bit, Andrew, it tis your communications I'm needing this time.”

“My what?”

“The telegraph,” explained MacDonald. “I find it tis necessary to send two. Ye can get messages to Carson City, Nevada, aye?”

“Sure thing. I heard y'all and Rolfe had brought in a herd. Prices any better for beef?”

“Bah!” A deep rumble issued from the throat. “If we nay had the contract, they would have screwed us as badly as any that wore the grey. As tis the money twill buy beans. Andrew, this tis Lorenz. Lorenz, Mr. Andrew.”

Andrew nodded at Lorenz and shoved a piece of paper to MacDonald. “Howdy, young man.”

Lorenz nodded and watched MacDonald bend and scrawl lines across the sheet. He finished with a flourish and looked at Lorenz. “Does yere sister have an address?”

Lorenz shook his head. “Then what about O'Neal? Does he have an address?”

“He owns the Sportin' Palace, or did when ah left.”

MacDonald sighed and shook his head. “Andrew, the first goes to Miss Margareatha Lawrence, General Delivery, the other to Mr. Red O'Neal, owner, Sporting Palace.”

“I'll read them back just to make sure there's no error.” Andrew's face showed no emotion as he read. “Miss Margareatha Lawrence. Stop. Lorenz is safe with us. Stop. A letter from your mother, Mrs. Anna MacDonald, nee Schmidt will follow. Stop. Mother rescued eight years ago. Stop. Zebediah L. MacDonald

“Next one,” continued Andrew. “Mr. Red O'Neal, Sporting Palace. Stop. Marshal Franklin of Arles, Texas needs your confirmation that Patrick O'Neal was alive when Lorenz left with you two years ago. Stop. Marshal has family poster. Stop. Speed is important. Stop. Zebediah L. etc.” Andrew looked at MacDonald.

“Aye, twill do.”

“That'll be five dollars for the two.”

“Tis dear.” MacDonald dug down in his trousers and extracted a coin.

“At least it gets there,” replied Andrew. “Y'all going to pick up everything for Schmidt's Corner?”

“Nay, just the liquor barrels for friend Rolfe and myself. Twill be another hour or so ere we're back,” answered MacDonald and tipped his hat at Andrew. He and Lorenz stepped outside and walked back towards the Marshal's office.

Lorenz was trying to devise an escape plan. Maybe he could race the man and jump on Dandy and be gone. He tensed. The crowd wasn't much and big man probably couldn't move too fast.

“If ye are thinking of bolting, dinna. And when we are at the wagon, ye dinna touch yere mount.”

“Why?”

“Tis another of my rules.”

Lorenz sulked. The man's rules were becoming tedious. This was just like being with his sister. And how the hell did he know what he had been planning?

MacDonald untied the reins and led the way to the wagon now parked in front of the general store called Stanley's Dry Goods and Sundries. The wagon's faded green slabs were hung with water barrels and nose bags. The team of part Morgan and some other lineage stood with heads bowed and tails swishing at the gathering flies. MacDonald tied Dandy's reins to one of the hoops at the back and pulled down the tailgate revealing an interior lined with boxes. “Now we'll have a look at yere stash. Ye can take off yere saddle and bags as they'll go in the wagon. Ye'll be riding with Martin on the seat.”

“Like hell!”

“Laddie, I am being patient. Take off that saddle,” MacDonald commanded.

Lorenz stared at him. “Why cain't ah ride?”

“Lorenz, if ye dinna wish yere britches down now in front of all of these people, ye twill do as I have said.” MacDonald's r was rolled into three in his pronunciation.

Lorenz yanked at the cinches. Outright rebellion was futile. He would wait for a better time. He half-threw, half-slammed the saddle onto the wagon bed. MacDonald's eyes glinted, but he knew he had won.

“Now, let's see what ye have.”

The contents of the saddlebags were slim. There was no food and no tobacco. MacDonald held up a pair of canvass jeans and critically eyed the lad before him.

Lorenz flushed. “Ah grew. Ah would have traded 'em, but no time.”

“Tis this all the clothes that ye have?”

“That's it.”

MacDonald shook his head and extracted the remaining items: a thin blanket, a tin plate and a spoon. The implements he put into the chuck box and left the blanket in the saddle bags. Then he shoved the saddle against the sidewall.

“Since all the clothes that ye have are on ye, we twill go shopping.”

“Why?”

“I canna take ye back to your mither with nay but those clothes.”

Lorenz was puzzled, but then realized that his mother was going to have opinions about what he wore similar to Rity's ideas. MacDonald's voice rumbled on.

“Walk.” He pointed to the doorway in front of them.

“We ain't eatin'?” There was real regret in Lorenz's voice.

“Aye, ere long.”

The inside of the store offered relief from the sun's gathering strength, but there was no breeze and the air was beginning to resemble a modern sauna. The smells of pickles, brown earth still clinging to potatoes, coffee, spices, dyes from the few new clothes and polished boots assailed the nose. A slender, balding man of about forty nodded at them. Stanley would have preferred to ignore the huge man, but like the rest of the town, he knew that the damn Yankees had delivered a herd to the cavalry stationed outside the town. If necessary, Captain Richards would enforce the sale.

The bile rose in Stanley at the thought of MacDonald and Rolfe, two of the few people with cash money in their pockets in June of 1865, walking around and not hung or tarred and feathered. The soothing proclamations of the provisional governor notwithstanding, the War had left the South bereft of valid currency. He knew that both men would buy most of their goods from MacDonald's brother-in-law at Schmidt's Corner. “Anything ah can do for y'all?” His offer was perfunctory, his voice cool and aloof.

Amusement lurked in MacDonald's voice as he answered, “Aye, the laddie needs a pair of boots.” Inside, the big man was shaking with laughter as Stanley's eyes lit up. “Plus two pair of socks as the missus twill knit more.” No need to raise the man's expectations too high. “And a pair of britches,” he concluded.

To Lorenz he asked, “Do ye have a slicker?”

Lorenz shook his head. “Answer and say it right,” MacDonald's voice rumbled out at him.

Lorenz quit gawking at the meager goods laid out on the table, flushed, threw a baleful glance at the big man and spat out, “No, suh.”

“Mayhap that can wait. It does nay seem ready to rain for a while, but twill need a shirt.”

“Will Mrs. MacDonald be needing any material for new shirts?” asked Stanley, a note of expectation crept into his voice.

“Nay, she still has a bolt from her last shopping trip, howe'er, once we have selected a pair of boots and some clothes, twill need a few supplies for the extra mouth.” He turned toward the end wall and the rack of boots. They were all crudely made, and all the same color: black. The boots were made to fit either foot and so fit neither. MacDonald had his own boots cobbled as none such as these would fit him. He longed for the day when they could afford a tailor, and his wife would no longer need to make all of his clothes.