Lost in Laredo Read online

Lotte sat on her own stump beside her husband, her hand on the crook of his arm. He closed his hand around hers and cradled it, then leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “We’re home,” she murmured, her eyes still fixed on the fire.

  “Ja, thuis,” he agreed. They’d all agreed to speak in English to each other whenever they could, since they needed the practice, but so far they’d had few chances to interact with the locals other than to buy supplies. So sometimes they fell back into more comfortable habits.

  “I’m going to check on the horses,” said Lotte as she stood and took off her apron.

  Marcus smiled, and she knew he understood. Their mare Jan had given birth to a foal only days earlier, and Lotte couldn’t get enough of the darling creature. It was a bay with a long white blaze down the center of its tiny forehead and black fluff where a forelock and mane would someday grow long and sleek.

  She hung her apron on a peg in the wall near where a kitchen table would one day stand, but now only their provisions bag and a stack of pots, pans and cans sat in the dirt. She bustled outside with a handful of carrot and turnip peelings for Jan. They didn’t have a barn yet, so the horses and burro they’d bought for the journey west grazed at the end of a long tether held fast by a stake in the ground.

  As she walked out to where the animals stood beneath the glow of a half moon, she wondered what the future would hold for the four of them. Oom Gust and Marcus had been brewers back in Maastricht, making beer that was known by name all over the country for its full-bodied flavor. But the two men had spoken of adventure and the American frontier for so long, it had only been a matter of time until they decided to go.

  She sighed and rubbed her hands up and down her sleeves slowly. She hadn’t wanted to come, but Marcus had his heart set on it. Think of the opportunity! Prachtig! He’d said it as though it meant the world to him. So she’d given in. Not that the decision was hers to make – Marcus always did what he wanted. He was determined, his mama would say – vastbesloten. But Marcus wanted her to be happy, and so she chose to be, even when everything within her cried out to stay home, close to her sister, her parents and the town where she’d spent her entire life.

  Lotte heard the animals before she saw them. Jan grazed lazily, and her little foal lay by her hooves, its head tucked against the ground and its side rising and falling with each deep, sleep-laden breath. “There you are, my girls,” she whispered, stroking Jan’s head.

  The horse sniffed her hands, still chewing on a mouthful of grass.

  “Yes, you greedy thing, I brought you some carrot.” Lotte laughed and held out the carrot shavings. The mare picked them up from the palm of her hand, lips fumbling against Lotte’s skin. It tickled and made her laugh again.

  The horse nosed her skirts and made her stumble backward. “Now, now – I don’t have anything else for you. And there’s plenty of grass still here to graze on. I’m sure Marcus will move your stake in the morning. Would you like me to see if I can find you some tender shoots down by the creek?”

  Jan returned to her grazing, having determined that Lotte’s pockets didn’t contain anything more of interest, but Lotte wandered toward the creek anyway. The chatter of cold water over smooth rocks always soothed her thoughts. She’d grown up close to a creek, and as a girl had loved to sit by its shores and think about everything on her mind.

  When her troubles seemed too big for her to manage, she’d lay back on the bank, her head resting on her hands, and stare up at the sky as the sound of water running and bubbling over the stones soothed her nerves and calmed her thoughts. Her mind would empty itself of everything save the beauty of nature and the emptiness of the sky above her.

  She sat now and tucked her skirts under her legs, then rested her head on her knees. With a sigh, she thought about the journey they’d taken, the hardships, the worries, the illness – everything they’d overcome. Then her thoughts turned to the future and the work that lay ahead of them. She sighed and plucked blades of grass, rolling them into balls between her fingertips.

  What would happen to them? They’d sold everything, given up their home, their loved ones, everything they knew to start a new life in the middle of nowhere. She glanced around – Texas was like a desert compared to home. Could anyone survive in a place like this?

  The snap of twigs startled her. Her head jerked up and she listened, wide-eyed. She still hadn’t gotten used to the nighttime sounds – there were so many creatures out here she’d never heard of before that could tear a person apart. At least, that’s what people in the wagon trains they’d traveled with had told her.

  She sniffed. Was that smoke? She leaped to her feet and stood on tiptoe to stare back toward the house. A grove of elm and oak trees stood between her and the cabin, but above the grove she saw the glow of red and orange.

  The cabin was on fire!

  Her heart leaped into her throat as she broke into a run. As she drew nearer she heard a yelp, followed by another, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. She scrambled between the trees, a low branch leaving a scratch across one cheek. She stubbed her toe on a rock and stumbled forward, landing hard on the ground, hands first, at the edge of the grove. She scrambled onto her hands and knees behind an oak.

  With horror, she saw the cabin ablaze and Comanche warriors riding around it on painted ponies, their voices raised as they yelped and cried out in victory. In the open doorway, she saw Marcus lying face down, an arrow protruding from the center of his back.

  Her hands flew to cover her mouth as she gasped. She bit the palm of her hand to keep from crying out and scooted back further behind the tree trunk. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she sobbed silently. She pulled her skirts up over her face, not wanting to see any more, and cried into the fabric of her skirt.

  The noise of the fire, crackling and snapping as it destroyed their home, rang in her ears, along with the shouts and laughter of their attackers. She pressed herself against the trunk of the tree, willing herself to disappear. She knew what would happen if they found her – she’d heard the stories.

  Several Indians dismounted and strode around the clearing as if searching for something. She shivered, eyes wide, and slowed her breathing as best she could, her cheeks still wet with tears. They found the horses and burro, shouted with delight, and she moaned inwardly. They were all she had left – and now they would be taken too!

  Within minutes the Comanches were gone, the trotting of their ponies’ hooves on the hard ground fading until only the crackle of the fire and the cry of an owl overhead interrupted the night’s silence. Lotte let herself cry then, big heaving sobs that wracked her body as she laid her head down against the tree roots. She cried until she could cry no more, then let sleep take her so she didn’t have to face the pain any longer.

  The call of a blue jay woke Lotte the next morning. Her eyes flicked open and she glanced around slowly, then lifted her head from the tree root and massaged her jaw with a frown. Why had she slept on the tree that way? Surely she could’ve found a more comfortable bed. And where were the others?

  She glanced around, saw the cabin … and memories of the previous evening came crashing in on her like a wave in a storm. “Marcus!” she cried as she jumped to her feet. She ran to the cabin, stopping short when she saw his charred remains. The arrow stood straight and tall in his back, blackened by the flames along with his body. Only the bottom two logs remained around the cabin’s circumference, and they were charred and broken as well. The bottom of the chimney had burned, but the top, built so carefully by Marcus’ loving hands, leaned to one side.

  With a great sob, she slumped to her knees beside her husband and laid a hand on his back. It didn’t feel like him, and she pulled it back with a start and cried out.

  When she finally stood again, she crept through the doorway. Embers still glowed all over the dirt floor and smoke wafted skyward here and there. Their belongings, once stacked so neatly against the wall, now lay in blackened piles. On the new bed, Oom Gust lay
behind Tante Annika, his arm resting protectively over her ample waist.

  Lotte lowered her head into her hands and wept. She gulped a mouthful of air and searched her pockets for a handkerchief. When she found it, she blew her nose loudly.

  A sudden thought startled her: what if the Comanches came back? Her heart pounded. Surely they wouldn’t – they’d destroyed everyone and everything, so there was no need for them to. Was there? But perhaps they were on their way to somewhere else and would pass by after finishing whatever else they were doing. She couldn’t take that chance.

  She sniffled into her handkerchief again and thrust it back into her pocket, then went to the pile of burned things they’d carried with them all the way from the Netherlands and New York. Quickly she rifled through the clothing and kitchenware, found the purse Annika kept hidden among her undergarments and stuffed it in her own skirt pockets. It was still mostly intact, and Annika wouldn’t be needing it again.

  The provisions bag was ruined, but she managed to rescue some pots, pans and other utensils from it, wrapping them in a half-burnt skirt from her own carpetbag. The carpetbag had mostly survived, beneath Marcus’s bag and a wool blanket – one handle was ruined, but she could carry it with the other. She packed everything still usable into it. Returning to the door, she knelt over Marcus and sobbed a final goodbye, then reached beneath him and pulled out his pocket watch. She held it to her cheek as tears continued to fall, kissed it and tucked it into her bodice.

  Finally Lotte sniffled and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. Then stood and ran, the singed carpetbag in one hand, the skirt-turned-bindle in the other, tapping out rhythms against her legs with each stride.

  2

  Lotte pushed herself forward, plodding, one foot in the front of the other, down the dusty road. She’d caught a cold that night under the oak, since she couldn’t start a fire without coal oil or a match – or the Indians spotting her. She sniffled into a handkerchief and squinted in the burning sunlight.

  She’d set off on foot toward Fort Worth, but after walking a few miles in the heat, she’d begun to wonder if she was traveling toward Fort Worth or away from it. She’d been desperate to escape in case the men who burned the cabin and killed her family returned, but hadn’t paid much mind to which direction she took. Through the morning, she’d wept and cursed and halted to slump onto the road and pound it with her fist, but never once considered checking to make sure she was going the right way.

  Now she stopped and looked up at the sky. The sun was directly above her, its rays baking her uncovered head. Sweat saturated her bodice. She plucked Marcus’ pocket watch from there and held it up, aligning the hour hand with the sun. She knew you could calculate north and south by splitting the space between the hour hand and the number twelve …

  … oh no. She’d been heading south! She shook her head and stamped a foot in the dust. Oelewapper – she’d been traveling for hours in the wrong direction!

  She took a long slow breath. There were no more tears left – she’d been drained dry. And did it really matter which way she walked? After all, where was she going? She had no one to return to, no place to call home. Should she reach Fort Worth, it wouldn’t change her circumstances – Marcus, Oom Gust and Tante Annika would still be dead. Everything they had would remain lost. As would she.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, then took another breath and a step forward. She had no choice. There was nothing else to do but to keep moving. Keep living. Might as well keep going south as anywhere – she was bound to reach something.

  Lotte walked until darkness began to creep across the rolling plains. Her heart seized when she saw it blink on the horizon, then dip below it. She should’ve already set up camp, but something inside her didn’t want to stop. As long as she kept moving, everything felt better – when she stopped, her mind swirled and the reality of her situation came crashing in on her.

  She felt more vulnerable than she’d ever felt with her family around her. They’d camped beside their covered wagon every night, but having the others with her, their weapons close by, made her feel secure. Now, she had nothing to protect herself with but a blackened knife she’d pulled from the provisions bag a few hours into her journey, wrapped in a handkerchief and stowed in her boot. As the day progressed, she became more and more aware of just how alone, how exposed she was.

  She noticed a sprinkling of cypress trees in a line to her left, walked over to them and heard a stream, smelling its sweetness before she saw it. Her parched throat constricted, and she almost smiled when she reach the clear water. She threw her belongings down on the bank and plunged into the creek, her skirts and petticoats soaked in moments. She laughed and splashed in the water, cooling her sunburned skin, then plunged her face beneath the surface.

  When she emerged, she scooped up the water and drank eagerly, until she couldn’t hold any more water in her belly. Then she remembered the leather canteen she’d salvaged before she left the camp that morning, climbed out to get it, filled and sealed it, and drank some more. Sated and cooled, she clambered back up onto the creek bank and lay on her back with her hands behind her head. Had it only been last evening she was looking up at the same stars in contentment? It seemed so long ago.

  A stab of grief ran through her and she sobbed out loud. Then she pushed the pain down and sat up. She needed to live. Focus on that.

  All right, what should she eat for supper? The burned provisions bag had supplied her with pound cans of corned beef and baked beans, tins of peas and sauerkraut, and singed beef jerky – everything else had been charred beyond recognition. She had money to buy more when she reached the next settlement, but had no way of knowing when that would be. And she wasn’t sure what she’d do once her supplies and money were gone.

  Another worry for another time. She glanced around the bank. If she could find something to fish with, perhaps she could pull a fish from the creek. Or maybe there were some edible bulbs growing along the edges of the water in those reeds. It was worth a look. First, though, she stood and squeezed the excess water from her hair, then her skirts. Time to gather firewood – the sooner she learned to start a fire without help, the better her chances of survival.

  Once she’d collected a good pile of sticks, she searched through her carpetbag, pulling out each can and studying it thoughtfully. Some still had a remnant of their label, but with others there was no way of knowing what was inside. She extracted the pots and pans from her old skirts … and her hand brushed against something small and hard in a pocket. She paused with a frown, felt around it with her fingertips, then pulled out a piece of steel, round on each end and curved into curlicues in the center. A flint!

  She squealed with delight and held it up in the air. She’d never been so happy to see a piece of metal. She jumped to her feet and danced a happy circle in front of the sticks she’d gathered, shouting and crying at once. Then she glanced nervously around the clearing in the gathering darkness and held the flint to her chest. She’d have to be careful not to make so much noise – the last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself.

  Thankful for all she’d learned already during their travels, Lotte carried her things into the center of the cypress grove. It wasn’t much, but the narrow sliver of woods might give her some cover. She set everything down on the ground and returned for her firewood, then searched the creek bank for a suitable rock to strike with the flint. She found a nice flat rock and carried it back to her new camp.

  She used the knife to feather shavings from a dry stick and drew the flint over the rock until the shavings caught fire. Then she pushed the shavings into the base of a carefully stacked pile of firewood and blew on it gently, watching the fire climb over the sticks and grow. The flames snapped and curled, sending a thin trail of smoke into the canopy overhead. She’d built the fire as low as she could and carefully selected her wood to avoid green or wet pieces, so the smoke was thin and pale.

  Lotte smiled in satisfaction as she str
ipped off her wet clothes and hung them on low branches to dry. The fire soon warmed her damp skin and undergarments as, seated on a rolled-up blanket, she warmed a pan of beans, stared into the flames … and her mind flashed back to the other fire as tears wound down her cheeks.

  Antonio took a pinch of tobacco from his pouch, tucked it into his cheek, sighed and slouched deeper in the saddle. He’d almost forgotten how hot Texas could get. Sweat trailed down his temple and into his shirt. It clung to his back, and he tugged at it in an attempt to loosen its hold, without success.

  The road ahead was completely empty, just a stretch of dust and dirt as far as he could see. The bay gelding he’d bought when he arrived in Texas wasn’t the same as Adelita. He missed the buckskin mare – she’d become his family after he left his wife and daughter behind in Mexico, and she was a good listener. Not that he ever talked much. He chuckled to himself and spat tobacco juice through his teeth onto the dry road.

  The sound of trotting hooves behind him made him swivel in the saddle. A man barreled toward him atop a black horse, its sides bathed with sweat and its nostrils flaring with each labored breath. The man wore a black suit, white shirt and a black bowler hat. A generous stomach slumped over his belt, and his red face sported a long drooping mustache. He frowned as he drew close to Antonio, looked back over his shoulder and shouted, “c’mon, ya nag!” while tugging a rope in his right hand.

  Antonio stood in his stirrups to see a burro, small and bony, being pulled along behind the man. It was struggling to keep up and shook its head in an attempt to dislodge the rope from the man’s grasp.

  In frustration, the man tugged a whip from a loop on his saddle and flailed it at the burro’s head. “Ya dadgum lazy … I should just shoot ya, ya good for nothin’ …” He swung at the animal again and again, missing each time as the creature ducked out of the whip’s path.