Gather The Children (Chronicles of the Maca Book 2) (4 page)

The shirt was blue, rough, and collarless. The cotton drawers and vest were bought a size too large to allow for any growing Lorenz might do. MacDonald added a couple of handkerchiefs, a belt, and then moved toward the counter.

Stanley rapidly positioned himself in line with the counter and the shelves to be able to retrieve any item that was ordered. If the man bought enough, Stanley would be able to pay on his account at the Blue Star. Maybe he could even stay in business.

On his way to the main counter, MacDonald picked up a doll with brown hair and a fixed smile. “And how much tis this,” he asked holding it aloft.

The doll, like many items in his store, had lain there since the second year of the War. Stanley licked his lips. “Two dollars.”

“One.” MacDonald's eyes hardened.

Stanley nodded. “One dollar it is.” Damn the man. He always seemed to know what a body would accept in payment. At the counter, Stanley took out his pad to jot down the purchases.

“We need a pad of paper, lined, and a pencil.” MacDonald was consulting a list. “And do ye happen to have some colored chalk for a wee lassie to do some drawing?”

Stanley retrieved the items from their respective shelves. “Come fall, we'll have some of those nice wax crayons,” he volunteered.

“Nay. Kap twill get them for us.” MacDonald could not resist shooting an arrow into the Stanley's pocket of hopes.

“Now as to the food,” he continued. “Twill be needing an extra pound of beans.” He eyed Lorenz critically. “Mayhap ye best make that two pounds, two pounds of flour, and five pounds of potatoes. Do ye have any canned tomatoes left?”

“Not a one,” came Stanley's bitter reply. “There are a couple of cans of peaches left though.”

“Aye, we'll take them. Do ye have any condensed milk? Twill go well with the peaches.”

“Certainly,” Stanley's voice became brisk and businesslike and his movements quickened. As he brought the canned goods to the counter, he noticed the boy eyeing the loaves of bread and rolls. “Maybe he'd like a roll while we're conducting our transactions,” he suggested.

MacDonald nodded glumly. He suspected a hollow stomach in that skinny body. “Aye, add it to the bill.” Lorenz snagged a roll and stuffed it into his mouth.

“We are nay sure if the dried apples twill be on this shipment to Schmidt's Corner,” continued MacDonald. “Do ye have any?”

“No, we're completely out, but here, try some of these. Brand new this year, just in from California.” He removed a saucer from the top of a cup and handed the cup to MacDonald. “I can't keep the flies out of them else,” he said to explain the saucer. “They're called raisins, dried grapes, and just as sweet as can be.” He didn't add that they were on consignment from growers in California desperate to get rid of two years' worth of agricultural products.

MacDonald's huge fingers barely fit into the cup. He extracted a few of the raisins and warily rolled one on his tongue and bit down. Surprise flooded his face. “Tasty. Here, laddie, try some.” He dumped the remaining fruit onto the quickly outstretched hand. The raisins went the way of the roll.

“How do ye use them?” he asked Stanley.

“Just like any dried fruit; cakes, breads, and pies,” answered Stanley.

“Then twill take a pound. Mrs. MacDonald twill be pleased. Now, do ye have any ladies' gloves?”

Anger reddened Stanley's face. MacDonald knew he did not carry finery. Stanley also knew MacDonald would take his money down to the French seamstress. He considered the woman an insult to the town. A former prostitute, she did the sewing for the whorehouse floozies, and kept a supply of cheap doodads for their costumes, plus an assortment of ribbons and leather items that cut into Stanley's business. For some reason, the women from the saloons and brothels preferred her establishment. That MacDonald would even acknowledge his wife in public was another insult. Whoever heard of any other white woman living with the Comanche for two years and coming out in public places? Why couldn't she stay hid like a decent woman? “None,” he said as smoothly as possible.

“Ah, very well, then I twill need a pouch of tobacco.” He turned to Lorenz and asked, “Do ye smoke, laddie?”

For once Lorenz was polite, “Yus, suh.”

“Make that two bags of tobacco and some papers for the laddie. We twill also need a loaf of that bread and a pound of cheese.” He looked around, “And do ye have some pickles left?”

“Yes, suh, we do. They're in the bottom of the right barrel. Y'all can fish out what you all want.”

Lorenz retrieved the pickles while Stanley removed the cheesecloth from the cheese and positioned the wheel over the round to hit the mark for one pound. The cleaver moved downward in one deft stroke. “Will that be all?”

“Aye, tis enough.”

Stanley totaled the sums, frowning and wetting his pencil stub. “That comes to twenty-five dollars.”

“'Tis dear,” muttered MacDonald and reluctantly counted out the money.

“The price of flour just keeps going up. Sugar too. Even if folks had jobs they couldn't afford either one.” Bitterness was back in Stanley's voice. “How's Schmidt doing way out there?” Not that he cared. He just wanted confirmation that the damn Yankees were caught in the same unnatural way of things since the War's end.

“Nay well. He has carried too many on his books too long.”

Stanley nodded. Somehow he couldn't gloat. What's a man to do when kids and women were hungry? He wrapped the purchases in brown paper, tied them with twine, and handed the bundles to MacDonald.

Outside the sun hit full force. Dust rose in puffs and streams with every passing horse and vehicle. An undersized eight-year-old boy with snotty nose and cut down trousers was hustling down the street paused and asked, “Beer, mister?” He held up an almost clean lard bucket.

“Aye.” MacDonald tossed the boy a nickel. The brown hand shot out and clutched the coin while the boy spun on his heels and lifted them in a dead run to the saloon down the street.

MacDonald handed Lorenz the packages and put down the wagon gate. He shoved the clothing and sundry items back and opened the bread and cheese, cutting both in huge slabs. Lorenz waited, his stomach lurching with the anticipation of food. He took the sandwich MacDonald made and swallowed it in huge gulps. MacDonald eyed him, sighed, and built two more sandwiches before hoisting himself up on the wagon.

“We might as well sit. And chew that damn thing. There tis more.” He took one of the pickles and halved it neatly with his broad teeth.

Lorenz flushed. The bread and cheese were hitting his stomach like lumps, but it had been a long time since he had eaten more than a mouthful of jerky. The last two days he hadn't hunted. He had not wanted Zale to know that he was near. Money he had run out of months ago.

The boy came dashing back with a full bucket of beer, neatly avoiding the woman on the sidewalk. MacDonald handed down his own lard bucket and the contents of the first was transferred. “Here, laddie, have a bite of cheese.” MacDonald cut off a generous chunk and handed it to the child.

Saliva drooled out of the boy's mouth. “Thank y'all, suh!” He snatched the cheese with the same alacrity as he had the coin and ran towards the freight office. Someone there might be thirsty.

Lorenz took another sandwich and a pickle. This one he chewed. “Don't that Stanley fellow like y'll?” He looked at MacDonald warily, but the man had said he had a right to ask questions.

“To most in this town, we are nay but damn Yankees. They tried to burn us out during the war and failed. Now they can do nay.” Laughter edged in MacDonald's speech, then vanished. “Then too, they are nay happy with yere mither.” He paused and Lorenz looked at him.

“She twas with the Comanche for two years, laddie. The townspeople think she should hide away like some dirty thing.” The r's rolled more thickly on his tongue again. “Fortunately, yere mither has more sense and pride than that. Howe'er, any slurs that may be said against her in this town are my business, nay yeres.”

Anger shook Lorenz and he forgot to use his dialect. “They wouldn't dare.”

“They have nay openly dared since the first time I brought her back,” said MacDonald complacently. “That does nay keep them from thinking.” He took another hunk of cheese. “Do ye wish another sandwich?”

“Ah reckon.” A man could travel far on a full belly. They split the last of the pickles.

“Do ye wish some brew?” MacDonald hefted the beer bucket.

“Nah, ah don't like it.”

MacDonald tipped back his head and drank heavily and then wiped his mouth. “That seems strange when yere mither makes some of the best brew around.”

“Mama makes beer?”

“Aye, tis a receipt she and Kap have from yere grandfither.”

Lorenz shook his head. Who the hell was Cap? There was still a lot he had to put together. “Why din't we eat at the restaurant like Rolfe and his kids?”

“Tis Mr. Rolfe, laddie,” reminded MacDonald. “He spends his money his way, and I spend mine my way.”

“What's laddie mean?”

“'Tis my way of boy, kid, or son.” MacDonald's voice was low and gruff, but sounded kind. Lorenz was beginning to think the man a fraud. People feared him because he was huge. Sheer meanness probably wasn't in him. The problem was his size. If the man got aholt of somebody, he would do damage, mean or not. Worse, it was possible he was someone that Lorenz had heard about.

“You and Mr. Rolfe,” Lorenz emphasized Mister to see if MacDonald took offense and didn't see the warning glint in MacDonald's eyes. When no verbal warning came, he continued, “are you all called the Bear and the Wolf?”

MacDonald chuckled. “Aye, the Comanche have called us that. Where did ye hear it?”

“In Zale's camp. Wolf, Mr. Rolfe wuz after 'em. Ah saw him once. He was slow skinnin' a man. Scared the shit out o' me.

MacDonald lowered the beer and looked at him, not sure that he had heard the mangled English correctly. “When was this?”

“Ah wuz about seven.” Seeing the puzzled look on MacDonald's face, he kept on talking. “Mamacita, that's what ah called Zale's woman, kept a countin' stick.” At MacDonald's nod of understanding, Lorenz launched into a recital with his own brand of English.

“Somebody came into camp claiming a whole passel of folks was after Zale, and they all broke like crazy. Ah wuz off doin' somethin', ah doan recollect what, and snuck out of there. Ah thought ah got clean away when ah looked down over a bluff. Figured somebody wuz down there, cuz ah heard a horse. Iffen they wuz after Zale, ah tho't they might take me home. Anyways, ah looked over and there wuz one dead horse and two of Zale's men jist as dead. Another of his men wuz tied down oveh the dead horse and the Wolf, ah means Mr. Rolfe, wuz parin' away; real slow like.” Like came out as liake.

“The man was part Injun so he warn't screamin', but ah ran back towards where camp had been. Rolfe didn't seem no different from Zale and his men. At least ah knowed them. Mamacita wuz lookin' for me and took me back with her. We both got a beatin' that night.”

MacDonald set the empty lard bucket down. “Tis a shame ye ran. Friend Rolfe would nay have harmed ye as he kenned yere mither and uncle even then. Ye would have been safely home within the week.” He reached for the cans of peaches and milk. The laddie's face showed nay emotion. “However, dinna mention the skinnin' to Young James.”

He held up the two cans. “Have ye tried these?” Deftly, he used his knife to saw open the peaches and put two slits into the canned milk.

Lorenz shook his head no. The sudden spurt of confidence had spurred him into gabbing like a jaybird. He was confused, but this time with himself. He watched MacDonald slap two peach halves each on two slices of bread, and then empty the milk into the juice of the peach can. What the hell does kenned mean, he thought. Knowed? He accepted a peach crowned slice of bread, used his hands to keep the fruit from sliding off, and gulped half of the bread. The jolt of sugar hit his taste buds. God, that was good! He took a swig of the milk sweetened juice and nearly gagged. He hadn't tasted milk since he was what? Seven? Eight?

MacDonald's huge paw grasped the can before it dropped from his hand. “Nay so fast to be rid of it, laddie.” Laughter skirted the edge of his voice and Lorenz flushed.

“I wish some too.” He tilted his head and downed half the liquid, finished chewing the crust in his mouth, offered the can to Lorenz, and at his refusal, downed the last of can. “It makes a tolerable pudding,” he said with a grin.

“Milk's for babies,” Lorenz protested.

MacDonald's shoulders shook, the breadth of them straining against his shirt.

“Laddie, the Union men thanked the good Gar for that invention,” he said as he pointed to the empty milk can.

Lorenz ignored him and watched the stragglers moving on the plank sidewalk. The Rolfe family approached, ten-year-old James scooting in front, then dropping back, his head working like a swivel under his brown hat, gooseberry eyes taking in everything, his nose working almost as fast as a hound dog on a trail, and his legs jerking like sticks as he skittered in one direction then another, never far enough to provoke Papa Rolfe to wrath. Martin lifted a hand in greeting and disappeared into the dry goods store. Rolfe handed James a coin and watched his youngest charge after the older.

“Und mind your manners.” With that bit of fatherly advice, Rolfe walked to the wagon. “I sent the poy for some beer. I'll buy du a drink, friend Mac.”

“Thank ye, friend Rolfe.” It was the easy banter of men who spent long hours in each other's company.

To Lorenz he said, “Laddie, I need to purchase yere mither a gift. Ye twill remain here.”

He grinned at Lorenz and then at Rolfe. “Try nay to hurt him if he bolts. I would like to take him to his mither in one piece.”

Cold blue eyes swept over Lorenz. “Don't vorry.” Rolfe spat. “I may drink your beer if du take too damn long.” He leaned against the tailgate and folded his arms across his chest.

Lorenz remained where he was. He knew Rolfe would nail him with the bowie knife if he were dumb enough to run. He watched MacDonald's wide form rock down the planks and enter a small store at the end of the block. He was puzzled again. What kind of man bought a gift for his woman? Zale hadn't ever given his woman anything but a bunch of still-birthed kids and beatings. Red never gave the women that worked in his brothels anything, and that fellow he worked for when he was twelve and swamping out the livery stable in Tucson never said anything about buying his woman a gift.