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

The marshal settled himself behind his desk and drew up another chair for Mallory. As Justice of the Peace, Mallory also functioned as the Notary Public and the coroner. The latter was a job that he and Doc Huddleson had been sharing for years. “Now y'all give your details of what happened this morning to Mr. Mallory, who will write them down, read them back, and then y'all make your mark underneath,” he said to the boy.

The young man was still defiant, but puzzled by the legalities. “Mark? Hell, iffen y'll mean name, ah can write that.” That came out as theat.

Full of surprises, thought Franklin, and turned to Rolfe. “Rolfe, put his guns on the shelf over there for now.” He motioned toward the built in cabinet holding the spare shotguns and rifles. “Here's some paper and a pencil. Will that shelf have enough room for y'all to write? We're getting a little crowded for space.”

He glared at the young, blond man peering in the door and recognized young Rolfe. Well, no matter, except he didn't like too many people in his office. The space became overheated and stifling. The kid in front of the desk kept shifting his weight, acting like he'd pull some stunt if he dared. So far no words came from his mouth. The kid was watching MacDonald as he deposited the knives on the shelf with the other hardware. MacDonald turned and folded his arms across his chest, his brown eyes glimmering with secret amusement. He knows men, thought Franklin. He knows the kid would gut shoot him as quick as he did Zale if he had the chance.

He turned his attention to the youth. “All right, young man, do y'all have a name?”

“What difference does that make?” The words were sullen, angry, and slurred with some type of border drawl.

“Both Mr. Mallory and I need that for the records. He starts the paper out with 'I, your name, the date', and the rest of what y'all have to say about what happened.” Franklin was patient. The boy had his back up, but he did need the information for the county records.

“What for?” The kid was still baffled, and he looked ready to run.

At the cabinet shelf, Rolfe was busy writing, stopping every so often to look at a word, lick at the end of the pencil, and begin again. MacDonald hadn't moved. He was still watching, his face was now intent on the boy's face. Franklin removed his hat and sighed. This was going to take some time. “It is necessary because if the government does acknowledge your claim, they need to know who y'all are and where to send the money.”

“What the hell am ah suppose to do fer eats? Ah need it now!” He glared at Franklin.

“Kid,” Franklin sighed, “half of the people in Texas are wondering what to do for eats. First things first, state your name and tell Mr. Mallory how y'all killed Zale, that is, if y'all did kill him.”

A flush spread over the half-wild face. Franklin noticed the scar that started under the boy's scraggly mane, traversed the length of the right cheek, and slid under the dirty shirt. It was an ugly scar, twisting the mouth upward into a sarcastic grin. Right now the proud flesh was turning purple; the grey eyes were blazing and turning into cold fire. God, thought Franklin, that one kills and probably enjoys it.

“Ah kilt him and his right hand man, Travers. The rest ran like coyotes, but two was limpin' and one sure as hell ain't gonna make it.”

“Fine,” replied Franklin. “Now just tell Mr. Mallory your name, how y'all came upon them, and exactly what happened out there.” He locked his eyes with the boy. “Otherwise I might just throw y'all in jail for disturbing my whole morning.”

The kid pondered that for a minute and shrugged. “My name's Lorenz,” he gritted out between clenched teeth.

“And?” inquired Franklin.

“Huh?”

“A man generally goes by two names, sometimes more. We need that for the record. First and last name, please.”

The gray eyes studied him. It was not slowness that stayed the boy's tongue. Franklin suspected he was hiding something. The boy shrugged. “Some call me Kid Lorenz.”

Franklin snapped the fan to hide a smile. Now he recognized the warning twitch in the back of his mind. The name was from an old handbill. What Franklin didn't like was the way MacDonald and Rolfe had straightened. The last thing he wanted was trouble from those two. He did not take lightly the tales of MacDonald breaking bones while Rolfe carved away with his bowie knife. Right now, he needed to hear what the youth had to say before he brought up the old handbill. “Fine,” he repeated, “tell Mr. Mallory what happened.”

MacDonald stepped closer as if to hear the tale, but Franklin suspected he was studying the boy's features. Rolfe seemed to nod and returned to his writing. Franklin slid the bottle of ink over to Mallory and breathed easier as the boy began his recital of following Zale's trail out of Fort Davis down to Juarez and back. Franklin kept his eyes on the big man and on Rolfe. MacDonald was still looking intently at the kid and Rolfe was still busy, but, damn it, the boy did bear a resemblance to Kasper Schmidt. Quietly he reached into his bottom drawer to pull out the old handbills, trying to listen and look at the wanted posters without distracting MacDonald. His mind kept worrying about what the big man would do. Should MacDonald decide the kid was his stepson, all hell could break loose.

What kind of man married a woman who had been taken by the Comanche and then goes into court sues for divorce by declaring her husband guilty of desertion, abandonment of wife and children, and attempted murder? To top it off, Rolfe and MacDonald were damn Yankees. They publicly stated to one and all that they had given their oath when entering this country, and by God, they'd not break it. Despised the two might be, but here they remained. The town had tried threats and burning them out. When a trio of townsmen attacked MacDonald while he was recovering from a war wound that crazy woman of his had taken MacDonald's cane and thrashed one assailant as MacDonald dispatched the other two. You'd think the Yankees would have the decency to stay out of town, but Rolfe and MacDonald drove in their cattle and sold them to the U. S. Calvary. They walked and rode where they pleased.

Halfway through the handbills, Franklin found what he knew was there. Rolfe interrupted his thoughts by laying the paper on his desk and asking, “Vill dot do it?”

Franklin scanned the writing, still half-listening to the boy's recital. The writing was surprisingly crisp and to the point, a neat up and down slanting script he would not have credited to someone who spoke English as Rolfe spoke it.

“Yes, as soon as Mr. Mallory has time, you can sign in his presence and he'll stamp it,” replied Franklin in a low voice.

The kid stopped talking long enough to glance at them. “Ah snuck up on 'em during the night. They didn't know ah was there, and ah waited for dawn's light and gut shot Zale when he was pissing.” The thinking of it brought pleasure to his eyes. “Then ah shot the others and watched Zale finish dyin'. He took some time dyin',” he ended with satisfaction. Then the boy glared at them and clenched his fists as though daring any of them to dispute his version.

In his own drawl, Mallory read back the recital. “Is that right?” he asked when he finished.

“Ah reckon,” came the kid's answer.

Mallory brought out his seal, inked it, stamped the page, wrote in the date, and then his name with a Gothic flourish. “All it needs now is your mark right here.” He turned the pages and pointed to the correct line where he had applied an X. He handed over the pen and said, “Y'all will need to dip the pen again.”

The youth bent over the paper and brushed the hair back behind his ears, took a deep breath, and grasped the pen. The hand was large and bony, a strong hand, showing the strength that would someday come with full growth. He bit at his lip and in printing wrote out LORENZ, scrawling the letters like a four or five-year-old child that has just learned to write. He shoved the paper back to Mallory, straightened and looked at the marshal. “Iffin that's all, ah want my guns.”

Franklin smiled. The lad was ready for a fight. He'd lose, but still he intended to fight. “I'm afraid I can't allow that. This handbill says that a Kid Lawrence is wanted for killing one Patrick O'Neal down in Wooden almost two years ago. You're a bit taller, but y'all were only thirteen then. It says y'all ride with Zale. Y'all didn't find his camp, y'all were just there. That's why it was so easy for y'all to shoot him, wasn't it? Y'all just blasted away in camp. Why? Is that reward sounding good in these days of slim pickings?”

“Like shit! Ah kilt him 'cause he did this to me,” the kid touched the jagged scar, “an' he kilt the woman that raised me. Ah tried to stop him and he damned near kilt me then. That was most three years back. 'Sides, that O'Neal bastard was alive when ah left.”

The kid was getting wild-eyed again, about ready to bolt. MacDonald wasn't helping matters as he had edged forward to occupy the space next to the desk and the kid. Rolfe had casually dropped his hands to his waist. Both men worried Franklin.

“Did y'all ride with Zale?” he asked.

“Hell no!”

“But y'all were at O'Neal's?”

“Yeah.”

Franklin knew why MacDonald and Rolfe were ready to fight and he didn't want it; not here. This was to be his last job and he wanted to leave it walking upright. He tried again.

“Y'all said Mr. O'Neal was still alive when y'all left. Do y'all have any proof or anyone to back up your story?

“Yeah, his kin was with me.”

“Who would that be?” Franklin asked the question, but he was watching the huge, looming bulk of MacDonald.

“Red, Red O'Neal. His paw's brother to that O'Neal, only his pa's worst.”

“Do you know where this Red O'Neal is now?”

“Ah reckon he's in Carson City. That's where he wuz goin'.”

“That presents a problem,” began Franklin. From the corner of his eye he could see MacDonald straighten.

The deep voice rumbled out, “Marshal, tis that an official handbill or mayhap one put out by the family?”

Small towns rarely covered the cost of printing and distributing wanted posters, but a wealthy family would gladly pay for the printing and shipping. Franklin knew he was losing even though he felt the kid was lying. “It's a family one,” he admitted, “but I'm sure the city of Wooden will concur with the charge.”

“Hell,” broke in Rolfe in disgust, “Wooden and dot whole county belong to O'Neal.”

The kid was startled. He wasn't sure why help was coming from two people he considered his enemies, but it calmed him. Maybe there was a chance of getting out of here.

“Mayhap ye could tell the marshal why ye were in Wooden,” suggested MacDonald.

“Ah was lookin' for my folks. We used to live thar, out of town a piece.”

MacDonald smiled. “Aye, and yere sister, Margareatha, twas she with ye? Do ye ken where she tis now?”

The boy stood open-mouthed and bewildered. He ran his eyes over the six-foot nine, two hundred and ninety-five pound giant in front of him. His questions had so rattled him that he answered without thinking. “She's in Carson City too.”

“Good Gar, nay with O'Neal?” The shocked question exploded.

The boy's eyes had hardened again. “Who the hell are y'all? Ah'd sure as hell remember somebody as big…” The voice trailed off and the grey eyes softened for the first time. “There was a big man who useta ride me on his shoulders.” He looked at MacDonald, emotions pulling at his face.

“Aye, 'twas yere grandfither. He tis nigh as tall as me.” MacDonald turned to the marshal. “As ye can see, he tis one of the laddies we have been looking for. He twill go home with me, and I twill send a telegram to Mr. O'Neal in Nevada. Ye can find out if there are charges against the laddie, and the town twill nay have to bear the expense of his boarding.”

“And if the handbill is correct, then what? Are y'all bringing him in?” asked Marshal Franklin. He had considered the costs, but accommodating MacDonald would not endear him with the citizens.

MacDonald regarded the marshal for a moment and then spoke. “Tis the word of MacDonald ye have that I twill be bringing him back.”

“Go to hell!” the boy exploded. “Ah ain't goin nowhere with a bastard like y'll, and as far as this shittin' jail…”

A hard hand clamped down on his shoulder and stopped the tirade while propelling the kid toward the back door. “Ye twill excuse us, gentlemen. We twill be back directly,” stated MacDonald.

Franklin could only nod. Rolfe grinned and spat. Mallory stared at them bug-eyed. “And keep Mr. Mallory here for the signing of any papers if need be.” He shoved Lorenz out the backdoor and walked him away from the building.

Lorenz gave up struggling. He had felt the bones move when he resisted. That grip was worse than rawhide cutting into the skin. Survival was his only credo and winning a fight against this man wasn't possible. He noted the flat ground, the lumber yard to the left on the next block, and the backs of the buildings on this street. Everything else was open, exposed, no trees, no boulders, no fit place to hide if he ever got loose. It looked like he was going to listen or get belted again. I'll kill him like I did Zale, he thought.

“Now ye can turn, and we twill speak.” The pain left his shoulder and Lorenz turned.

“Weren't no women in there,” he protested to MacDonald.

MacDonald chuckled. “Aye, but I'd rather have my say where others are nay hearing, and from now on ye can nay call me those names.”

The boy was silent as the dark eyes regarded him, taking in the breadth of his shoulders. His head was held high and proud, grey eyes sparked like flint. The lad had a wide brow, thick, dark eyebrows and eye lashes, a straight nose, the lips were a bit thin set in taunt anger, and the cleft in his chin made him a masculine version of his mother. Except for the scar, he tis a likely looking laddie, thought MacDonald. “Do ye recall yere mither?” he asked.

Lorenz nodded and MacDonald continued speaking, “The Comanche took yere brithers. Have ye seen or heard of them?”

Lorenz simply glared at the big man. Since the big bastard didn't like the way he talked, he was damned if he was going to say anything.

MacDonald sighed. “I twas a scout over at Fort Davis ere the War. Yere mither twas at one of the Comanche camps the 2
^nd
Dragoons attacked. She twas nigh starved for she would nay do things their way.” He grinned in remembrance. “She tis a stubborn woman.”