A path led to an open place among the willows where three men were sitting around a fire. Two were older men, the other in his early twenties, Val judged.
They looked at him. “Man, you look as if you really got it rough,” the younger man said. “They throw you off that rattler?”
“They sure did.” Val touched his scalp. “But they didn’t do this. I got pistol-whipped in Dodge City.”
They looked at his outfit, and his boots. “You been punchin’ cows?”
It was simpler to put it that way, so he agreed. He dropped down on a log across the fire from them. “Somebody rolled me and dumped me into a boxcar. Where are we, anyway?”
“Missouri.” The younger man leaned over and filled a tin cup. “Have some coffee. Do you good.”
Neither one of the older men, both of whom looked capable and tough, had spoken.
“Which way you headed?” Val asked.
“East. I got an uncle in Pennsylvania. I’m going there.”
One of the older men leaned back under the makeshift shelter and said, “New Orleans for me. I can make it good, down south.”
“Ain’t much to do,” the other one said, “and they don’t pay nothing, Fred.”
“I’ll make out. I always have.”
The coffee was hot and strong, and it was just what Val needed. He felt the warmth of it go through him. “I got to find work,” he said. “They took all I had.”
“You got anything to sell?”
Val thought of his spurs. They were large-roweled, California-type spurs, not too common in this area. “I’ve got some spurs.” He showed them. “That’s about all.”
“You might get a dollar for them—maybe two if you hit the right fellow. Say, there’s a boy about your age up at that farm”—he pointed—“who might fancy those spurs. I seen him trying to rope a post up there. Fancies himself a cowhand.”
“You got to be careful,” Fred offered. “You can get six months for putting the bum—” At Val’s blank expression Fred explained. “I mean, for begging. You ask for grub or money, and they’ll put you on a work gang.”
“And it don’t make any difference that you’re huntin’ work,” the other man said. “I’m a millwright, and a good one, if I do say it. There just ain’t any work to be had.” The fire as well as the coffee had warmed Val, and he grew sleepy. All of the others dozed, but when a train whistle blew the three ran for the train and left him sitting there.
He stared into the ashes of the fire. The rain had stopped, and he should be getting on. He was fiercely hungry, his head still ached, and he was unbelievably tired. He got to his feet, kicked dirt over the fire, and took the path that led toward the farm where the boy lived who might buy the spurs.
The road was muddy, but he kept to the grassy border. Cows stared at him across the fence, and at the ranch a dog barked. He walked more slowly as he neared the farm, not wanting to enter. He had never sold any of his personal possessions, and did not feel sure how to go about it. He dared not ask for food—not if he could get six months in jail for it. And he knew that some jails hired their prisoners out as laborers and collected a fee from whoever hired them.
He hesitated, then turned in at the gate. A big yellow dog barked fiercely, but he talked softly and held out his hand to it. The dog backed away, growling.
A woman in a blue apron came to the door and looked at him suspiciously. “Yes? What do you want?”
“I was wondering if you had some work I could do? I can split wood, dig…I guess I can do anything.”
“No.” Her voice was sharp. “We don’t need any help, and you’re the fourth man who has been here this morning.”
A tall boy had come into the doorway behind her, and the contempt vanished from his eyes as he glimpsed Val’s cowboy boots. They had been made by the best maker of cowboy boots, and were hand-tooled, with fancy stitching.
“Are you a cowboy?” he asked.
“I was,” Val said. “I was robbed in Dodge City. Somebody put me on a train and here I am.”
“Tom, you stay in the house!” the woman ordered. “You don’t know who this man is.”
“He ain’t no older than me. Look at his beard—it’s only fuzz!”
Val was irritated by the comment, but he kept his peace. “Are you a cowpuncher?” he asked, knowing well enough that the boy was not.
“Well, not really.” The boy had come outside. He was about Val’s age but somehow seemed much younger. “I plan to be. Only my folks, they don’t cotton to the idea.”
He walked out and leaned on the top rail of the fence. Val sat on the rail beside him. “It’s hard work,” he said, “and some of those old mossy-horn steers get mighty ornery.”
They talked for a time while Val’s stomach gnawed with hunger. Finally he said, “I got to go. I want to find somebody who’ll buy my spurs.”
“Spurs? Let’s see them!”
Val took the spurs from his pocket. The Californios liked their spurs fancy, and these were an elaborate job, each with two tiny bells. He could see from the way the boy’s eyes shone that he wanted them.
“You can see,” Val said, “these are no ordinary spurs. Fact is, they were a gift to me. From Wild Bill Hickok.”
“You knew him?”
“He was a friend of my uncle’s. He warned my uncle that some men were looking for him. To shoot him,” he added.
The boy handled the spurs. “I’d like to have them,” he said, “but I’ve only got two dollars.”
“Well,” Val said, “if you could rustle me a meal, or some meat and bread or something, I’d sell them to you for two dollars.”
“You just wait right here.”
In a few minutes he was back with a paper sack and the two dollars. Val took the money and the sack. “You’d better go now,” the boy said. “Pa’s coming home and he’s dead set against tramps.”
“All right…and thanks.”
He started for the gate, then hesitated. “Look, if you ever get into west Texas, you hunt up the Bucklin outfit. They’re this side of the caprock—you ask at Fort Griffin. You tell them Val Darrant sent you.”
He walked out of the gate, and when well down the road he sat down under a tree. There was a big hunk of meat and cheese in the sack, and several slices of homemade bread, as well as an apple. Val took his time, eating a piece of the bread, most of the meat, and the apple. Then he walked on.
Two days later he was in St. Louis. He rode the last few miles on the seat of a wagon beside a farmer who was carrying a mixed lot of hides, vegetables, and fruit. “Work’s mighty scarce, boy,” the farmer told him, “and you will do yourself no good in St. Louis. Ever since the depression hit, there’s been three men for every job.”
Idle men stood about the streets of the city, and Val paused on a corner, considering. He had nothing to sell. Nor was he in any position to look up any of Will Reilly’s friends, for he lacked the one thing Will had always insisted he keep. He must have a “front,” he must have the clothing, the neatly trimmed hair, the polished boots, even if he did not have a cent in his pockets.
Standing on the corner watching the traffic, he tried to gauge his talents and abilities. He had great card skill, but he did not want to be a gambler. He had skill with guns, but he did not want to use it. He had received from Will an education in literary and historical matters. But to do anything with any of these abilities he needed money.
All day he walked the streets, and wherever men were working he asked for a job. In every place it was the same. “We don’t have enough work to keep our own men busy.”
When night came, he wandered back to the river front and sat down on the dock. For the first time he realized that Will Reilly, while showing him much of life, had also shielded him from much. To be with Will Reilly had given him a position, and as Will was treated with res
pect everywhere, Val had also received respect. Suddenly now it was gone, and he stood alone, and unknown.
There were friends of Will’s in St. Louis. They had stayed at the Southern Hotel, and Will had been accorded the best treatment that hostelry had to offer, but he could not walk into that lobby looking as he did now. He might write to the ranch for money, but the postal service was uncertain, and it might be weeks before anybody from the ranch went into town, or to Fort Griffin.
Before, even during periods of separation, Will had always been not too far away, and Val had always known there was somebody, somewhere, who cared. Now there was nobody.
That night he slept on a bale of cotton under the overhang of a warehouse. He put a newspaper under his coat for protection against the cold, huddled in a ball, and shivered the whole night through. Several times he awoke, turned over, and fought to get back to sleep again. Always there were places where the cold reached him.
At last he got up and walked down to the edge of the wharf. The river was running through the piles, sucking around them. Further up a river boat was tied, lights showing, but the lights were obscured by the falling rain.
It was still dark; he was hungry, and his eyes heavy with weariness. After a while he walked back to his cotton bale, tucked the newspaper more firmly into place, and went back to sleep.
He awoke in the cold gray of dawn. The rain had stopped, but the clouds hung low. The river rolled by, and he sat staring at it, wondering which way to turn.
An old man, puffing on a meerschaum pipe, was plodding along the dock, carrying a lunch box. He glanced at Val over his steel-rimmed spectacles. “Mornin’, son,” he said. “You’re up mighty early.”
Val grinned at him. Hungry, stiff, and cold, he still felt a streak of whimsy. “Mister,” he said seriously, “you have just walked into my bedroom unannounced. I did not wish to be disturbed.”
The old man chuckled. “Well, now that you’re disturbed you might’s well come along and have some coffee.”
Val dropped off the bale. “That’s the best invitation I’ve had for a whole day. In fact, it’s the best invitation I’ve had in several days.”
They walked along to an old steamer that lay alongside the dock, and the old man led the way over the gangplank, and along the deck to the cabin. He unlocked the padlock and they went inside.
“Sit down, boy. I’ll rustle around and make some coffee.” He set the lunch box on the table. “Ain’t seen you around before, have I?”
“No, sir. I’m hunting work.”
“What’s your line?”
“Well, I’ve never worked much. I’ve punched cows a little, and I’ve hunted buffalo. But I’m strong—I can do anything.”
“That’s like saying you can do nothing. Folks who do the hirin’ want carpenters and suchlike. You got to have a trade, son. Ain’t there anything special you can do?”
“Nothing that I want to do.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I can deal cards, and shoot a gun.”
The old man eyed him over his glasses. “Hmm. You a gambler, son?”
“No, sir. My uncle was, and he taught me. He said it was self-defense, like boxing. Only he didn’t want me to be a gambler.”
“Smart man. What do you aim to do, son? I mean, a man ought to be going somewhere. You’re young, boy, but you’d best be thinking of where you’re going to be at my age. When I was a boy I drifted, too. Always aimed to settle down and make something of myself, but somehow that was always going to be next year—so here I am.”
He had bacon frying, and the coffee water was boiling. “I bring my lunch, most times. I can stand my own cooking just so long, then I have to go out and buy something somebody else has fixed.”
“You’re not married?”
“Was…one time. Fine woman. Had a son, too.”
“What happened to him?”
“Went west…never seen hide nor hair of him since. He was a good boy.” The old man paused. “Can’t complain. I done the same thing as a boy. Went west with a keel boat and spent my years trapping fur.”
He glanced at Val. “You ever see the Tetons, son? Or the Big Horns? Or the Wind River Mountains? That’s country, son! That’s real country!”
“I’ve seen them.”
The old man put slices of the bacon on a plate, and then poured coffee. Got some bread from a bread box. “It ain’t much, son, but you fall to.”
Val took off his coat and sat down at the table. “You don’t need a deck hand, do you? I’ll work cheap.”
The old man chuckled, with dry humor. “Son, I’m lucky to feed myself. Ain’t had a job of towing to do in five months now, and only a little work then. There was a mite of salvage I was countin’ on, but there wasn’t much in the cargo…only flour. And water-soaked flour won’t do anybody any good.” Val put down his coffee cup. “Where was it sunk?”
“Bend of the river—maybe thirty mile downstream. She hit a snag and tore the bottom out. It ain’t in deep water. A body can land on the texas.”
“You want to try for it? I could help. I’m a good swimmer and diver.”
“No use. That flour’s ruined.”
“Not necessarily. I saw some sacks of flour out west that had been in the water, and only the flour on the outside was ruined. It soaked up water and turned hard as plaster.”
“This flour was in barrels.”
“All the better. You want to try for it?”
“That water’s almighty cold this time of year.” The old man hesitated, but Val could see that he was turning it over in his mind.
“We’d better keep it under our hats,” he said finally. “That cargo is worth something, and there’s some might want to take it from us.”
“Do you have a gun?” Val asked.
“An old shotgun, that’s all.”
They talked it over, and Val went out on deck with the old man to examine the gear. It was in good shape, and the steam winch was usable. The steamer had operated on the Missouri River and on some of its branches. It had been used to push flatboats up the river and log rafts down the river, and to tow disabled steamers. It was a real workhorse of the river.
“The water’s muddy,” the old man said. “You’ll have to locate a hatch, and if one ain’t open, you’ll have to open it.”
“I’ll make out.”
Val had never done anything of this sort, but he was right in saying he was a strong swimmer and a good diver, and he had read stories of salvage; and in San Francisco he had heard talk in the hotel lobbies about such things. There is no better place than a hotel lobby in a boom town for picking up information…at least, he reflected, he would be sure of some good meals.
The old man studied him with shrewd attention. “You’re an educated boy.”
“No, not with schooling. I never went to school. But I’ve read a lot, and I’ve discussed what I’ve read.”
The old man shrugged. “It could be the best way maybe. You think quickly, and you seem to have a good mind. Why don’t you study law?”
“I hadn’t thought of it.”
“Well, think of it. Even if you don’t want to practice the law you can use it in many ways. And just knowing it can be important.”
They talked a good part of the day, returning again and again to their project. They looked over the gear once more.
One thing disturbed Val. “We should both be armed,” he said. “There are too many drifters in town. Most of them are probably good men out of work, but there will be some bad ones among them. Such men can smell money, and if we get the flour up…How many barrels are there?”
“On the manifest, five hundred. Some will be damaged—maybe all of them.”
“It will take us a while, and somebody is sure to be curious, so we had better be prepared.”
“I
have no money,” the old man said. “The shotgun is all I have, and not many shells for it.”
Val thought of something suddenly. He and Will had stayed at the Southern. Perhaps the manager there might loan him money. They had been very attentive to Will Reilly, and there was just a chance.
He borrowed old man Peterson’s razor and shaved. He had now been shaving for two years, although even now he rarely needed to shave more than once every few days. And the old man had a black dress coat that did not fit him too badly.
Night had come before he started up the street toward the hotel. He felt ill at ease, knowing that he did not look right; nevertheless, this was a chance he had to take.
The Southern’s lobby was spacious, and it was busy. At the desk the clerk glanced at him, then ignored him, but Val said, “May I speak to the manager please?”
The clerk studied him with cool eyes. “The manager? What do you want to see him about?”
“Just tell him I am Will Reilly’s nephew.”
There was a change in the clerk’s manner. “Oh? Just a minute.”
He was back in a moment to show Val through a door into an inner office, where the manager sat at a rolltop desk.
“I am Valentine Darrant, Will Reilly’s nephew.”
“Yes, I remember you. How is Mr. Reilly?”
“He’s dead. He was killed.”
“Oh?” There was ever so slight a change in the manager’s manner. “So what can I do for you?”
“I arrived in town a few days ago, and I am broke. I have a job but I need a little cash. I was wondering if you—”
The manager got to his feet. “I am sorry, Darrant. We do not lend money. Mr. Reilly was a valued client of our hotel, but as you have said, he is no longer with us. Now, if you will excuse me—?”
A moment later Val was standing in the street. Well, he had no right to expect a loan. It had been a foolish idea. Still, how different it had been when Uncle Will was here!
Reilly's Luck (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 12