Virgin Fire

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  Copyright ©1991 by Nancy R. Herndon

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  First E-Reads Edition 2004

  For my wonderful parents,

  who taught me to love books.

  Special thanks to Alicia Condon, my editor, whose advice is always excellent; to Joann Coleman, who so patiently reads my manuscripts; to James Stowe, whose writing workshops are an inspiration to every writer who has taken them; and to Margaret Burlingame and Pat Worthington, who can always recommend the perfect book when I'm doing research.

  Prologue

  Fort Worth, Texas

  November, 1883

  Travis Parnell was eight years old the morning he rode into Fort Worth with his father. They'd been several days on the road from Jack County, stopping over at night with Pa's friends. “First the bankers, then the birthday present!” Will Parnell promised, his smile so enthusiastic that Travis felt the excitement rising like bubbles in a hot spring.

  Folks in Jack County liked to say that Will Parnell had a smile could make a corpse rise up and dance at his own wake and that when Will laughed, everyone laughed with him for the pure joy of it. Of course, they didn't know that sometimes, instead of laughing, Pa fell into sadness. Sometimes he sat by the fire staring at Mama's picture and drinking whiskey until the bottles piled up by his chair. Sometimes he never said a word for a whole day, or even a week, but that wasn't often. Mostly, since Mama died, Travis and his father spent all their time together, and Pa made life seem like a wonderful adventure.

  Just before they left for Fort Worth, Pa had said, “You're a big boy now, pardner. Think I'll take you along an’ show you off to the bankers, let ‘em take a look at my son an’ heir."

  So for the first time Travis got to see the trains puffing into the Texas and Pacific station and the streetcars rocking on their tracks between the depot and the courthouse, where more horses and buggies and wagons were herded together than folks saw in a whole year out in Jack County. And people—there were people everywhere—cowboys staggering out of the saloons, drunk and happy; ranchers lounging on the corners talking drought and fence cutting and tick fever just like everybody did back home; and ladies in fancy clothes buying things in the shops, where you could find just about anything you wanted, including a brand-new birthday saddle for a boy just eight years old. And finally the Cattleman's Bank, a three-story stone fort of a building with slitted windows looking out over all the sights.

  Travis held on tight to his father's hand, staring wide-eyed at everything and listening carefully while Pa told him about bankers—which was an important subject because Travis and his father were partners in the cattle business, and Pa said a cattleman needed a good banker to carry him over the lean years.

  "Texas ranchers never had a better friend than Hugh Gresham.” His father was pushing open the heavy door to the bank. “Back in ‘79 when the state started sellin’ land for fifty cents an acre, Hugh said, ‘Will, buy all you can while we got money to lend,’ so that's what I did. Then he said I ought to borrow enough to fence it, an’ I did that too."

  Travis nodded as he looked at the marble floors and the men standing behind metal grills shuffling money like cards in a bunkhouse poker game. He knew about the land-buying and the fencing, but he never got tired of hearing his father's stories, especially the ones about how they were on their way to owning the biggest ranch in Texas.

  "So I bought our land, instead of dependin’ on open range like so many did, an’ then I fenced it,” said Will Parnell. “Cost a pretty penny, but we're gonna put a million acres under barbed wire before we're through, boy, an’ when we have an occasional bad year, Hugh Gresham an’ Cattleman's will tide us over."

  Travis believed it. He could tell, when a prune-faced man with round spectacles showed them into the banker's office, that Mr. Gresham was very rich. He had a carpet with flowers all over it such as Travis had never seen before and a big desk made of shiny wood that was as smooth as an oiled leather saddle. Mr. Gresham sat on a brown leather chair behind his desk. Travis's father took the one in front of the desk, and Mrs. Gresham, who was a very beautiful lady—although not as beautiful as Travis's mother had been—perched on the arm of Mr. Gresham's chair like a pretty bird on a live oak branch.

  She looked rich too. She was wearing a sort of purply dress with so many ruffles all over her bottom that Travis wondered how she could ever sit down properly and so much lace on the front that he bet it got into her beans when she ate supper. But pretty as she was, Mrs. Gresham didn't seem to like little boys, because when he was introduced, she didn't say hello; she said, “Your boots are dirty!” which surprised Travis. Dirty boots didn't upset anyone at home. Then she pointed her finger and said, “You'll have to sit on the floor, and don't you get mud on Mr. Gresham's carpet!"

  Because his father nodded to him, Travis walked carefully around the edge and sat down on the hardwood floor to play with his lead soldiers that he'd got for his fifth birthday just before his mother died. He didn't think Mrs. Gresham was a very nice lady, but Pa evidently did. He said, “Well, Penelope, you're lookin’ as beautiful as ever.” Pa had a way with the ladies; everybody said so. Since nobody was looking at him, Travis rolled up a corner of the carpet to make a fort for his soldiers.

  "Our talkin’ business will surely bore you, Penelope,” said Pa in the voice he used when he was being polite but really wished the person would leave. He sounded like that when the traveling preacher stopped over. Travis untied his cowhide pouch and spilled the soldiers onto the carpet.

  "Why, you know I'm always interested in how you're doing, William Henry,” said Mrs. Gresham. “That's why I'm here.” And she took off her big feathery hat and dropped it on her husband's desk as if she intended to stay all day. On the floor side of his fort, Travis lined up the lead soldiers with the red coats.

  "Well.” Pa cleared his throat. “I haven't come with the best news, Hugh. Been a bad year for ranchers because of the tick fever, as I'm sure you know, an’ then there's the drought."

  "Now, Will,” said Mr. Gresham, “I hope you're not going to tell me you won't be making a payment on your loan."

  The fort Travis had made unrolled, so he lay down on his stomach and pushed the carpet into a hump with his elbow. Then he lined the red-coated soldiers up again on the floor. He was pretending they were the Mexican army.

  "A payment this year?” Pa chuckled. “Glad to know your sense of humor hasn't failed you, Hugh."

  Travis arranged the blue soldiers on the flowery carpet. They were the Texans and the carpet hump the Alamo, a fort where his granddaddy had died. Travis had been named after Colonel William Travis, the commander at the Alamo, who had died too. Everyone had—except the Mexicans.

  "Now about my gettin’ another loan—” said Pa.

  Mr. Gresham frowned. “Will, you owe the bank a lot of money."

  "I know that, Hugh, but like I said, it's been a bad year. The open range boys been cuttin’ my new fences an’ drivin’ their stock in to drink out of my water holes."

  "I've heard about the wire cutting,” said Mr. Gresham.

  Travis's father shifted his big body on the leather chair. He'd stopped smiling. “Just last week I took a shot at Manse Rayburn. Never thought I'd shoot a man over land, but it's mine; I paid for it."

  "Hugh paid fo
r it,” said Mrs. Gresham.

  Travis's father laughed again, but he didn't sound much amused. Travis wasn't either. He'd have taken a shot at Mr. Rayburn too if he'd been old enough, but he was only allowed to shoot at rabbits and such. His mother hadn't liked guns at all.

  "When do you expect to repay your notes, Will?” asked Mr. Gresham.

  "Well, times are bound to get better,” said Pa. “With a new loan to tide me over, I ought to see the turnaround in a year's time, maybe two."

  Travis mounted his cannons on the Alamo hump in the carpet and blew over half the Mexican soldiers on the floor. He wished they had a carpet at home. It was better than dirt for playing soldiers.

  "I'm not a rich man, Will,” said Mr. Gresham. “It's not as if I can give you the money myself."

  "I wouldn't expect it, Hugh,” said Pa, “but like you're always tellin’ me, the bank's in business to lend money."

  "Not when we don't get it back,” said Mr. Gresham. “The fact is, Will, I'm going to have to call your notes."

  There was a long silence while Travis set the Mexican soldiers back up. He wasn't sure what “calling a note” meant unless it was like “calling a square dance.” Pa had been a wonderful dancer before Mama died, the best in Jack County. Everyone said so.

  "You can't do that,” said Pa. His face had got very white. “I'd lose everything."

  Travis sat up because he knew something had gone wrong.

  "What did you expect, William Henry?” asked Mrs. Gresham. “Borrowing all that money the way you did!"

  Because Travis had taken his elbow off the carpet, the Alamo flattened out, and the cannons fell off and knocked over all the Texas soldiers.

  "Hugh, you're the one who convinced me to take out those loans,” said Will Parnell. “You can't—"

  "I have no choice, Will,” interrupted Mr. Gresham. “There's my shareholders to consider."

  "And Justin Harte's one of them. He'll never let you get away with this.” Pa sounded to Travis just the way he'd sounded when the doctor told him Mama wasn't going to make it. “We've been friends for years, Justin and me. We rode together in Cureton's Rangers during the war."

  Then Mrs. Gresham smiled and said, “Why, William Henry, Justin's not in town; he's not even in the state, so you can't count on him to save you.” She gave Travis's father another smile, a really mean one. “By the time Justin Harte gets back, you won't have an acre left to call your own."

  Mrs. Gresham scared Travis. When his own mother had smiled, you knew she really liked you, but when Mrs. Gresham smiled, she looked as if she expected something awful to happen and could hardly wait to see it, although Travis didn't know why she'd want anything bad to happen to Pa. Everyone liked William Henry Parnell. Travis decided she must be a bad lady—like the witches in the bedtime stories Mama used to tell. He didn't like Mrs. Gresham at all.

  Pa shouted at Mr. Gresham when the banker said something else about his shareholders, but shouting didn't do any good. Then they went back to the hotel.

  When they got to their room, Travis tried to cheer his father up. He tugged at Pa's hand and said, “We don't need their money. We can get rich all by our own selves."

  His father smiled. “That's right, pardner,” he agreed, but his smile wasn't the happy kind; it reminded Travis of Mama's when she was so sick and trying to pretend she wasn't.

  Then his father sat in a big chair by the bed and drank a lot of whiskey, just the way he did at home. After an hour or two, Travis asked hopefully if they were going out to supper. His father gave him a handful of money and said to buy himself something to eat, but Travis didn't want to do that. He and his father always ate together, and Travis didn't know where to get supper or how you went about it.

  Still, he didn't want Pa thinking he was scared to go out by himself, so he put his soldiers away, went downstairs, and wandered around until he noticed a candy store. Travis didn't see much candy in Jack County, so he bought some, and it tasted wonderful and cost hardly any money. That was a good thing since the banker wouldn't give them any more and even wanted some back.

  Then Travis watched the mule cars coming and going between the courthouse and the station, and after that he stood at the window of the gunsmith's, looking at the guns and deciding which ones he'd have when he was a big boy and he and Pa were rich and owned a million acres, like Pa was always saying. By that time he figured he'd stayed away long enough to have had supper if he'd known how to get it, so he headed back toward the hotel. He didn't think his father would notice that he hadn't spent all the money. Pa didn't notice much of anything after he stopped talking and started drinking.

  Travis climbed the stairs again and turned left down the hall just like he had before, but when he opened the door, something was wrong. His father was still sitting in the chair, but his head had tipped over, and the front of his shirt hung red and wet with blood. On the floor an old Colt revolver lay among the broken whiskey bottles.

  "Daddy?” Travis didn't usually call him Daddy because Will Parnell said that eight years old was too old for baby names, but this time Travis forgot because he was so scared. Someone had shot his father!

  He took one last, frightened look and ran downstairs to tell the man at the desk that Pa needed a doctor.

  "Likely he just needs a night to sleep it off,” said the man. “He's had two bottles sent up this afternoon."

  "He's bleeding,” said Travis. “He needs a doctor."

  The man took the steps two at a time and threw open the door without knocking.

  "The bad lady shot him,” said Travis.

  "What lady?"

  "Mrs. Gresham. She lives over at the Cattleman's Bank."

  "Well, that's one for the books."

  Which books? Travis wondered.

  The man leaned over and put his hand on William Henry Parnell's neck. Then he straightened, shaking his head. “He don't need a doctor, boy. He's dead."

  "No, he isn't!” Travis knew what dead meant. His mother was dead. If his father were dead too, they'd put him in the ground and throw dirt on him, and he'd never come back. “He's not dead,” said Travis. “The bad lady shot him, but—"

  "Stop sayin’ that, boy. You'll get yourself in a heap of trouble tellin’ lies about important people like Mrs. Gresham. Grand ladies don't go ‘round shootin’ folks."

  "But—"

  "Now, you come along with me. I gotta send for the police."

  People in the lobby got pretty excited when the man told them Will Parnell had shot himself, although Travis knew it wasn't true. Pa wouldn't have done that. But no one would listen to Travis or even let him go back upstairs. They said things like, “Go away, little boy,” and, “Stop pullin’ on my sleeve, kid."

  While Travis waited, huddled on a chair in the corner, the police arrived, and the man who'd called them went home. Then a new desk clerk came over and ordered Travis out the door. The new man said the hotel didn't allow loitering in the lobby and Travis should go home, but Travis didn't know how he could do that without his father. He didn't even know what loitering meant.

  Because they wouldn't let him in at the front door, he slipped up the back stairs. It was dark by then, and he had to find his father, but when he got to the room, Pa was gone. So were all their things—almost as if they'd never been there.

  Travis closed the door behind him and walked slowly down the front stairs. They must have taken his father to a doctor. Since Travis knew how to read—even after Mama died, he'd kept up with his lessons ‘cause Pa said that's what she would have wanted—he walked up and down the streets looking for a doctor sign, but he didn't find any. Finally, he asked a boy in front of the livery stable if he knew where the doctor lived.

  "You got money for a doctor?” the boy asked.

  When Travis nodded, the boy pulled him into the alley and knocked him against a big pile of packing boxes and trash. Travis tried to get up and hit back the way the cowboys at home had taught him, but the boy knocked him down again and said,
“Stubborn little bastard, ain't ya?” After the third time, Travis didn't get up again. He didn't even wake up for a while, and then his head hurt. His supper money and his sheepskin jacket were gone. Feeling sick to his stomach and dizzy, and hoping the big boy wouldn't come back and hit him again, he crawled into a wooden box to wait for Pa. He was cold and hungry, but he knew his father would come looking as soon as the doctor'd sewed him up.

  It was only the next morning that Travis realized he'd fallen asleep. The gray November light filtering into his box woke him up. Pa must be awfully worried by now, he thought, an unformed dread beginning to grow in his heart. Not knowing where else to go, Travis returned to the hotel and asked again for his father.

  "Don't know him,” said the desk clerk.

  "The man who was shot last night,” Travis persisted.

  "The suicide? He's dead, what else? But nobody said he had a kid along, an’ if he did, it wouldn't be no dirty little beggar like you. Now git on outa here before I call the police."

  Travis knew he was dirty, but he didn't have any place to wash—not here and maybe not in Jack County either. He'd begun to realize that his father really must be dead; otherwise, he'd have come to find Travis. Pa would never have let Travis sleep in a box without any dinner.

  Outside, he looked at the strange town, which just yesterday had been so exciting, and he wondered what to do. Go home? Jack County seemed a million miles away, and he didn't know how to get there. Even if he managed to find his way, Mama and Daddy wouldn't be waiting. And although his father had always said that he and Travis were partners, Travis knew the cowboys wouldn't see it that way. They'd want a grown-up to give them orders and pay their wages.

  Bewildered and frightened, he trudged down the street past stores that sold birthday saddles he'd never own and restaurants from which came the smell of bacon he couldn't buy. Finally, he got to the Cattleman's Bank. Travis stared at it a long time, rubbing his eyes because he was crying, although he knew he was too old for crying. His father had said so.