Gather The Children E-Book

Mari Collier

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Two aliens are living their lives in 1860's Texas.

One is filled with rage against the world; the other drawn to return to his homeworld and reclaim his land. Before they learn to navigate a spaceship between the stars, they need to find trust in each other and stay alive in a hostile, dangerous land torn by civil war.

But after two strong-minded Earth women alter their plans, they must make hard choices about their future.

Is revenge more important than love?

Leseprobe

Gather The Children

Chronicles of the Maca II

Mari Collier

Copyright (C) 2015 Mari Collier

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

To my beloved Lanny Dee Who wanted to see how that young man turned out.

Prologue

Toma the Justine stared at his controls and the rushing water below in horror and disbelief. What had happened in the intervening one hundred and twenty-four years? He was on the third planet from a star the main civilizations called the Earth and the Sun. When he landed it had been the Year of Our Lord, 1712, in their incorrect reckoning.

When he enlarged the cave to hide his ship, the Golden One, the terrain was stable and there were no people to discover it. Homes, small cities, and what the inhabitants called settlements now dotted both sides of a wide, flowing river. All types of river craft plied the water below. He checked and rechecked his coordinates. They were as correct as the first time, second time, third time, and fourth time he had run them.

If he let himself be seen while trying to find his ship capable of carrying him back to his world, someone on this planet would surely see his scouting craft. There was also the unpleasant fact that this exploratory craft did not possess the necessary power to extract the larger vessel, wherever it was. He could dive again, but it would be futile. He had found nothing below the surface but fish, logs, rocks and bits of sunken debris from the river traffic that moved along this great channel called the Mississippi.

He desperately needed to find a place less populated to hide his craft containing information he had gathered about this planet and its various peoples; information encoded on crystals for further study and extrapolation. Toma knew of one other place on this continent that had not shown any evidence of seismic activity. If he fled back to the more civilized continents, the population numbers increased the risk of his craft being discovered long before any rescue ship from his own planet would search for him or find him.

Like many on this continent, he fled to the area known as Texas. He buried his craft far from the sight of man. He would need to live out his life among these primitive beings that valued golden metal, land, and social position above the welfare of their like beings, and many disdained those who sought knowledge. It was a bitter, bitter end to his quest.

Chapter 1: Lorenz

“Hey, Marshal, better come right quick. Some kid's hauling in a dead man.” Zeke Cawley stuck his head in the office long enough to yell and then yanked his head back through the door like a turtle retreating into its shell.

Town Marshal Franklin sighed and put down the rattan fan he'd been using to create a futile breeze and shoo the flies. He straightened, brushed the dust from his worsted, brown jacket, and jammed his hat over white locks. At fifty-five he was old for his job in Arles, Texas and he knew it. Eighteen sixty-five had not been a kind year. There had been riots in Houston and Galveston; hungry people fighting for supplies. Once there had been only hardened adventurers passing through his town. Indians and Comancheros might cause concerns, but they remained well outside the town limits. Now he dealt with men who were probably Jayhawkers, Nightriders, or Redlegs. There were bands of hungry, angry men coming home from the War: men coming home to a home no longer there. Not content to let matters alone, Congress was considering a Reconstruction Bill.

Franklin stepped into bright, June sunshine and stood alongside the others gathering around some kid on an old, dapple-grey horse. The kid was leading a gaunt roan with a body wrapped in a tarp and draped over its swayed back. The boy sat rod straight, Henry rifle ready, body tensed, his lips a dead white slash against tan skin. The kid looked ready to shoot if anyone came too close or moved too fast.

To ease matters, Franklin pushed his hat back, stepped slowly forward, and asked softly, “Well, where did y'all find him?”

The boy's weathered hat covered long, curling, black hair that hid most of his features except glowering, grey eyes that raked the crowd. Boy seemed the right term for there wasn't a beard yet and at the distance of four feet it was obvious he hadn't bothered with bathing. Franklin felt that the kid wouldn't bother shaving if he didn't wash.

The boy fixed hard eyes on him, then on the star, and back to Franklin's face. “Ah didn't find him. Ah kilt him. He's Butch Zale, Comanchero. There's a five hundred dollar reward and ah want it.” The voice was cold-edged hard.

Franklin was startled. A murmur swelled and flowed through the crowd. “We'll need to take a look. Zeke, pull that body down.”

Zeke didn't like the job. His movements were rough and jerky. “Gawd, he's done gut shot him. Somebody give me a hand.”

The people were more interested in looking than touching. They watched, but no one moved.

“When did y'all shoot him?” asked Franklin. He had to keep control of the situation.

“Yesterday mornin'. Ah'd been followin' him.”

Franklin squinted against the sunshine pelting downward and was thankful he hadn't had to go after Zale if he and his group had truly been that close. The idea of this kid sneaking up and getting away without a scratch was preposterous. Still, it was best to proceed with caution as long as the kid sat there ready to blow away anybody that moved wrong.

“Where did y'all take him?”

“In a gully by the foothills. They tho't they wuz hid.” His voice had become a reasonable tenor that wasn't cracking. Franklin revised his estimate. Possibly the kid was about sixteen or seventeen.

“We'll need details for identification. I heard Rolfe is in town. Somebody go find him,” commanded Franklin.

“No need to look, Marshal,” came an answer.

The crowd parted for two men moving closer. “Ve been vatching.” A stream of brown, tobacco liquid erupted from between the lips covered by a blond and graying mustache, expertly missing the bystanders. Rolfe, ex-mountain man, sometimes wolf hunter, now a cattleman, still wore his buckskins and moccasins. A bowie knife hung from the waist of his short, blocky frame. The man beside him towered over Rolfe and the crowd, his huge, lumbering body swaying almost like a bear. He stood more than a foot taller than Rolfe and was equally wide. Unlike Rolfe, he wore boots and duck trousers, his dark blue, collarless shirt was covered at the neck by a blue bandana, and the wide brim hat of a cattleman sat square on the large head.

Franklin nodded at the two. “Take a look and see if it's Zale.”

Rolfe walked over and squatted, peering down at the crumpled form while the big man stopped a few feet from the kid and his rifle, seemingly watching the crowd and it's wonderment at the developing tableau with amused, brown eyes.

The kid was grinding his teeth at the delay. “How's he gonna know if'n it's Zale?” He shot the question at Franklin, but kept shifting his glare between the ex-hunter and his waiting friend.

“Believe me,” assured Franklin. “He knows.”

Rolfe stood and nodded to Franklin. “Dot's him. By damn, poy, I couldn't haf done it better. He died slow.” Rolfe's voice was filled with admiration, the blue eyes hard and knowing. Like his friend MacDonald, Rolfe was now studying the young man.

The boy jerked his gaze back to Franklin. “Now, ah want that reward!” His voice was harsh and reward came out like ree-ward.

Franklin shifted his weight to relieve the pressure on his corns. “It don't happen quite that fast. First there are papers to be filled out, then…” he stopped as the Henry rifle was pointed directly at him.

“You son-of-a-bitch! I killed him. It's mine!”

Franklin stood opened mouth at the authority ringing in the young voice, the sudden change of language, and the rifle pointed straight at his heart. No one saw the huge companion of Rolfe leaping the distance separating them. MacDonald shoved the rifle upward with his right hand and used his left to drag the young body down with a thud. Franklin caught the horse and handed the reins to Zeke. The boy rolled and went for the revolver at his side, flinging it up toward the giant when a knee caught him on the chin. With ease, MacDonald reached down and pulled him upright, turning the body and clamping his left arm around the boy. With his right hand he crunched down on the boy's right hand, extracted the revolver from the boy's suddenly loose grip, and flung it to Rolfe. Then he removed the other revolver, ran his hand over the boy's back and flipped a knife from its hidden sheath. Rolfe caught the knife while MacDonald ran his huge hand over the boy's front pockets and pulled out a pocket knife.

“His boots, Mac, his boots. He's probably got another knife in his left one.” Rolfe was watching with professional interest.

“Aye.” MacDonald leaned his weight into the skinny body and bent the boy over and tightened his grip. “Be still, damn ye,” he said mildly enough. He shifted his hold to the right and fished up the knife from the boot sheath. Only then did he release the boy.

The kid came up with fists clenched, chest heaving. He gauged the size of the man and his strength and knew he had lost, but rage boiled through him, unreasoning and unrelenting. “God damn y'all fuckin' son-of-…”

A huge hand exploded on one side of his face and then on the other, stopping the flow of words. He stood swaying, dazed, the world heaving, but he would not go down. His eyes cleared and he could feel the silence in the crowd, waiting, wanting more violence. He flicked his tongue to the side of his mouth where blood seeped.

“Can ye hear me now?” The voice was low and rumbling with the music of a different tongue.

“Yeah.”

“Then ye nay ere say such words to me again; nay ere in the presence of ladies.”

The boy stared upward and sucked in his breath, partially to finish clearing his mind and partially in wonderment. Where did this big bastard come up with the right to tell him what to say? God, he thought, look at the size of him. It was wonderment, and he still didn't have his money. The marshal's voice cut into his thoughts.

“Thank y'all, Mr. MacDonald. Zeke, haul the remains over to Doc Huddleson and get Mr. Mallory over here.”

“I'm right here, Marshall.” Mr. Mallory stepped from the crowd. His Justice of the Peace office was next door, and at the first buzz of excitement, he had joined the rest of the lookers.

“Fine, I need y'all to take a statement from this lad and from Mr. Rolfe.”

The boy let out his breath, hardly believing what he was hearing. “Ah get my gold?” he asked.

Franklin gave a wry smile. “I'm afraid the government doesn't work quite that swiftly.”

The boy was puzzled. “Why not? Thar's the bank.” He pointed across the street in the general direction of the next block.

He doesn't read, thought Franklin to himself, but that was not unusual. “The United States government doesn't keep its gold in some town in Texas. It keeps it up North for the Yankees. We have to send the papers to them.”

“Hell, ah need the gold.”

Franklin noted the boy's worn jeans, held up by a frayed rope, his ragged shirt, the sloppy, split boots, and sighed inwardly. Damn, young fool. Poverty probably explained the chance the kid took going after Zale, except, there was the full armory MacDonald had stripped off the youth. That didn't make sense. Of course, weapons were cheap now. Men would sell a prized rifle for a bag of flour. “We might as well go inside,” he said. “Mr. Rolfe, would y'all write down your reasons for recognizing Zale? If y'all can't, Mr. Mallory will, and then y'all can make your mark.”

Rolfe grinned. “Vhat language do du vant, Deutsch or English?”

“English, Mr. Rolfe, English will be fine.” He turned to the crowd. “That's all folks. The excitement's over for today.” He led the way inside followed by Mallory and Rolfe.

At the door he realized that the boy was still standing in the middle of the street, hands clenched, undecided, his felt hat still in the dirt where it landed when MacDonald had slapped him.

MacDonald solved the problem. He bent down, lifted the hat, and handed it upward, grinning as he did. “Ye might as well learn the ways of townsmen.”

The boy slammed the hat on and followed. He could devise no other method to regain the weapons that Rolfe and MacDonald carried. The gold, he decided had somehow been lost, but he needed his guns. He did not like stepping into the building. He had avoided buildings for well over a year and this was certain sure to be another place where people told you what to do and what not to do.

Chapter 2: Frontier Law

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 2nd Dragoons attacked. She twas nigh starved for she would nay do things their way.” He grinned in remembrance. “She tis a stubborn woman.”

“Y'all git her out of there?” Curiosity about her well-being forced the words to spill out.

“Aye, that we did. Then I took her to yere eld, er, uncle's place. He twas in Texas searching for her. There tis a bond twixt twins that nay can break.”

“She's okay then?” Lorenz felt compelled to ask. Inside he was reeling. Uncle, what uncle? He couldn't remember any uncle. And his ma was double born. Some held that unnatural. “Why cain't ah just go to my ma's and uncle's then?”

The words came softly from the big man. “Ye are going home to yere mither. Nigh seven years hence, Mrs. Anna Lawrence did me the honor of becoming my wife and counselor.”

Lorenz felt the sickness rise inside. His ma was married to this lout. Gawd. He looked at MacDonald and knew that within hours he would have the shit beat out of him or worse. No, mustn't think about worse. He had to get away, but to run now was stupid. All he could do was glare at the man and wish him dead.

The voice continued, low words rumbling out of the deep chest. “We have a wee lassie, but nay a laddie. There twas one, but he died within a few minutes of birthing. Yere mither has claimed all these years that ye, Margareatha, and Daniel still lived.” He paused to give Lorenz a chance to speak and when no words came, he continued.

“From now on, ye twill call me Mr. MacDonald, and ye twill answer aye, sir, and nay, sir, to my questions. The same holds for when ye speak with Mr. Rolfe or any other man back there.”

“Why?” demanded Lorenz.

MacDonald leaned backward and smiled down. “Because tis one of my rules and ye twill nay disgrace me or yere mither with yere tongue.”

“What the hell does she have to do with my talkin'?”

“Dear Gar, where have ye been? Did yere sister nay teach ye about civilized behavior?”

The boy looked at him and grinned a quick, sardonic slash. If his ma was like that, it was his ticket out. MacDonald wouldn't dare take him home. “Ah weren't with Rity the whole time. Zale's Comancheros picked me up, and ah lived with them for years. Ah ran away when ah wuz old enough. Y'all cain't take someone like me back. Ma don't want me anyhow. She wants Daniel.”

“Ye twere with Zale?” MacDonald was surprised. “What of yere sister? Did they have her too?”

“Naw, some Injun horse came through where we wuz hidin' in the cornfield. Rity always could ride anythin'. Still can. She got on and rode to O'Neal's place for help.”

“Damn!” MacDonald exploded, and he eyed the youth in front of him. Which question should he ask first and would he receive an honest response? “Why did they let a wee laddie like ye live? Ye twere nay of any use to them.”

“Zale's woman found me. She'd just lost a kid and needed someone to suckle. Zale let her keep me.”

“And what happened to Margareatha?”

“She got to O'Neal's okay, but the bastard locked her up and then sent her to some Catholic nunnery down in San Antonio.”

“So, O'Neal twas lying. I kenned I should have gone with Rolfe and Kasper.” MacDonald clenched his fists. “Damn, all these years wasted.”

“Huh?”

“Yere Uncle Kasper and Mr. Rolfe went twice to O'Neal's place trying to find ye and Margareatha. O'Neal insisted that the Indians had taken yere elder brither, yere mither, and young Augustuv and that ye and yere sister twere dead. He claimed to have heard rumors that yere fither had arranged for the attack. He showed them the two graves that supposedly held the dead from the attack.” explained MacDonald.

“It did nay make sense to Rolfe and me. Yere fither had red hair. The Comanche twill avoid a man or woman with red hair. Either he did deal with the Comanche or he ran.”

MacDonald looked at Lorenz. “Since ye twere with Zale, did ye kill the O'Neal living in Wooden?”

“Naw, I wanted to, but he had me chained up 'cause he and his brother figured out who I was when ah went there looking for ma. Red had followed me from Carson City and made him let me loose, and Red said he wuz taking me back to Rity, but he got drunk one night, and I gave him the slip.” Lorenz finished the tale without telling why O'Neal drank too much.

To MacDonald it was an amazement what the lad could tell and what he must have omitted from the telling. “Where twas he takin' ye?”

“Back to Rity in Carson City.”

“How did she get there from San Antonio?”

“Red helped her run away from the nunnery. She wound up in Tucson running a bakery.” Lorenz figured he'd better leave out the before part about her and Red gambling on the riverboats.

“How did ye get there?”

“Zale was close to there when I ran away, and Rity recognized me when I wuz looking for food.”

“Why did ye nay stay there?”

“Zale's woman ran away too and wuz with me in Tucson. She wuz pregnant agin and couldn't take that life no more. Zale followed her and kilt her. I tried to stop him, and he did this.” Lorenz touched the scar. “Rity had to pay for the doctor to fix me and to pay for it she started singing in the saloons.”

“Ye Gods!”

“Yeah, so y'all cain't tell Mama about Rity and where she is. Women like Mama pull their skirts away and spit at her, if they dast.” He looked at MacDonald, his own face flushed with triumph. MacDonald's face showed his words had had their desired effect.

MacDonald took a deep breath and continued his questioning. “Ye still have nay said why ye both left Tucson.”

“Red wuz in Carson City, cause of the War. He weren't about to get kilt and the South couldn't make him put on a uniform. He needed help with his cathouses and sent for Rity.”

“She works there?” MacDonald's voice sunk to a horrified whisper. If ere his counselor had reason to hate the O'Neal's, she would be in a fury when she heard this tale.

“Naw, she does his books, but she's got her own gambling place.”

MacDonald's eyes took on a humorous glint. Somehow it seemed possible. “And why did ye nay stay?” he asked.

“'Cause Rity made me mad by whuppin' me. Ah just left. Ah had to get even with Zale anyway.”

“'Tis that why ye went looking for yere mither first?” probed the gentle, rumbling voice. Baffled, the boy clamped his lips shut.

“Now that ye have told yere tale, ye can listen to me. We are going back in there and finish our business. Before we do, ye need to ken the rules for the way ye twill be living.”

He paused, his eyes locking with Lorenz, neither giving way. “One, yere name tis Lorenz Adolf Lawrence. Two, ye twill nay be using the vile words to me, yere mither, nay any adult. Three, when I give an order, ye do it, but if any of my orders should puzzle ye, ye have the right to ask why and ye have the right to remind me that I have given ye this right. Ye have the right to learn and to grow the way the good Gar intended, but if ye cross me, I'll drop yere britches where ye stand and use a belt on yere backside.

The boy opened his mouth to protest, but MacDonald cut him off. “The first time ye disobey, twill only be five counts with the belt. Each time ye disobey thereafter, I'll increase the count by one. By the time I reach ten, ye had best learn to count. Any questions?”

By now anger was surging through Lorenz. He swallowed bitter words mixed with bile. This adversary was too large. He needed time to think, to plot, and to run again. He shook his head to indicate no questions.

MacDonald smiled. “Tis welcomed ye are then, in our hearts and our House. Now, let us go back.”

Chapter 3: Introduction to Civilization

The 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.

Stanley, ever the salesman, selected two of the boots and handed them to MacDonald with a flourish. “Finest pair in town.”

MacDonald held them alongside one of Lorenz's feet. It was impossible to tell if they would fit or not. Lorenz's current boots were slashed at the side to allow for feet that had outgrown the pair he wore.

“Lorenz, take off yere boots and try these on.”

He turned to Stanley. “Ye might as well give us a pair of those socks so that he twill have them on when we buy the boots. I dinna want the boots to fit without the socks.”

Stanley raised his eyebrows. “Why not, is he still growing?” He was curious as to which of the lost children this one would be.

“Nay doubt he twill. He tis but fifteen, and already he tis as tall as his mither.”

Lorenz looked at his stepfather with a puzzled frown. No woman he'd ever seen was that tall except Rity. He took the socks from Stanley and slowly dragged them on while searching in his mind for some remembrance of his ma.

He remembered her towering over him enraged, grey eyes flashing, her lips drawn in a tight line, “Nein, nein. Du must not!” He must have always had the ability to make people mad. He looked up to see MacDonald ruefully regarding the unclad foot. At least the big bastard didn't say anything about the toenails and dirt clinging everywhere and he hurriedly pulled on the other sock.

After comparing the new boots with the old pair, MacDonald asked, “Have ye grown in the last few months?”

Lorenz shrugged. “Some, ah reckon. My shirt got too small and had to…” He stopped short and began tugging vigorously on the new boot. No need to tell MacDonald that he'd taken the shirt from someone's clothes line. Instinct told him that MacDonald would want to pay somebody for it even if the price came out of his own hide.

MacDonald watched the fight with the boot and said to Stanley, “We best see the next size.”

This pair proved to be a tad wide, but the selection of sizes had ended. “Twill do,” sighed MacDonald. “Now we need a shirt and a pair of summer drawers and vest.”

Lorenz was horrified. “Ah gotta put those on? Hell, it's hot out there.”

“Ye need nay wear them right now.” The voice was patient, half amused at his distress.

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.