THE

NEWCOMERS

Texas, 1830

I

HIS BOOTS sinking deeply into the freshly turned earth, Andrew Lewis reached the end of the row and hollered, “Whoa,” at the big blue ox. The muscular old work animal sometimes required a fair amount of coaxing to start pulling the wooden plow, but the slightest hint would bring him to a stop. Balancing the plow handle against his leg, Andrew took off his floppy, sweat-stained hat and rubbed the sleeve of a homespun cotton shirt across his forehead. Spring had brought the heat early, he thought. He had never completely become used to the fact that spring came earlier here in Texas than it did back in Tennessee.

He looked around for the black dog that had spent much of the morning trotting alongside the plow, watching for mice or rabbits that occasionally popped up, startled. He thought the dog might be off seeking mischief, a trait at which it was discouragingly talented, but he saw it dozing in the shade of a rail fence that kept cattle out of the field. Were the dog not an eager protector of the children, Andrew would long since have tried to give it to some passing stranger.

As he had done regularly for most of a month, he let his gaze run expectantly over the trail that came westward from the town of San Felipe de Austin. Damn it, he chided himself, it’s still a way too early to be looking for them. They’re probably not halfway here yet from the old state.

His back ached from the hard labor of planting. He stretched, placing both hands above his waist and pushing, trying to straighten out the kink that seemed to have found itself a permanent home. Late rains had delayed his starting, and it was high time the corn seed was in the ground. Plant it too early and it was likely to freeze. Plant it too late and it might be caught by a long summer dry spell. Farming had never been an easy life anywhere, but it seemed sometimes that Texas weather had a special grudge against the plowman.

He turned slowly, looking across the expanse of land he claimed for his own. At twenty-eight, he already owned more hectares here in Mexican Texas than the acres he might reasonably have expected to put together in a long lifetime back in Tennessee. The government in Mexico had been generous to its American settlers and he felt grateful. He had done well, especially in the four years since he had married Petra Moreno. She had given him a reason to work, to build, to grow.

He looked across the field toward his log cabin, where smoke curled from the tall stone chimney. It promised him a good dinner later, when the sun rose to midday and his shadow lay close to his feet. He had lived in that cabin alone his first several years here. He had added a second section after his marriage to Petra. He saw her now, a distant, slender silhouette, standing in the open dog-run that divided the two sections of the cabin. She probably wondered if something was wrong that he had stopped the ox and the plow.