by Bruce Graham
“You knew those Pinkertons were going to burst in on those bandits and didn’t warn me so I could be ready for it.”
Logan smiled and held his arms out, palms open. “And what would you have done? You can’t handle a gun. Three to one would have gotten you killed.”
“Better than being a sitting duck. They were close enough I could have hit them without even trying. I can’t take a chance. Red Horse is still alive, and has lots of friends up that way. I’m done. You owe me for one week.”
“Nate, think it over.”
“One week: 20 dollars.”
Logan opened his desk drawer and fumbled about. He held out a McCallen State Bank bank note for 20 dollars.
I did not take it. “Money, not a promise of the bank to pay. Greenbacks. You have them right there.” I pointed into the drawer.
“All right.” He rifled around and handed me four crisp 5 dollar greenbacks.
“Thanks for the work, but I’m gone.” I went past Logan into the store room, grabbed my gear that was stowed there, and walked past him and into the street. I strode to the livery stable where the woman was waiting, in riding denim from head to foot, between two horses. We mounted and were on the trail north within a few minutes.
The trail north led roughly due north about 60 miles to Hebbronville, a sleepy crossroads without any hotel and only a small, run down cantina. It was dark when we arrived there, ate a simple Mexican meal and went to the outskirts. We built a small fire with what sticks we could find and put out our bed rolls. She rounded up bundles of sticks that she laid out in a rough circle around the fire and us. She carefully placed more sticks on the circle, until the pile was thick and with thorns prominently showing. She took off her boots and produced a ribbon with which she tied her boots together. She looped the boots around her horse’s neck. “You’d better do the same.”
“What’s that about?”
“It’s to keep the snakes and scorpions out of the boots and away from the fire.”
That was something I hadn’t considered. “What snakes?”
“Rattlers. And when you get into your bedroll make sure that it’s tight around your neck, they’ll want to crawl in with you for the warmth.”
“Are you funning me?”
“I suppose you didn’t have rattlers or copperheads or moccasins in Vermont?”
“Not a bit. Only little garter snakes and maybe black racers.”
She laughed. “Well, out here it’s a heap different. Maybe if we keep the fire going it’ll keep them away. I’ve heard they don’t like the smell of fire.” We went about finding chunks of wood that we piled where she could reach them. “Good night, Vermont.”
She snuggled into her bedroll.
I did the same. When I was settled I asked: “What is your name?”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“No, you began to fight over Miss or Mrs.”
She laughed. “Yes, that’s right. What is your name?”
“Nate Gould.”
“And I’m Jennifer Acherson. Not Jenny, unless you want a slap. Jennifer.”
“Where are you from?”
“Originally Missouri, my folks settled there with their folks in the 1830s. My father and mother were second cousins, which may account for---well, anyway, I met my husband on the trail when we went into Kansas. We were both free settlers. He joined the Union militia when the fighting broke out. He was wounded during some skirmish and almost died. I cared for him and he was discharged for a wound that kept him from handling a rifle. He worked for Pinkerton’s for a while, but went out on his own as a railroad security guard. Now he has this idea of guarding the Capitol. Why are you here instead of back in Vermont?”
“Do you know anything about Vermont?”
“Nothing.” She reached over and threw a chunk of wood onto the fire. “Only that it’s in New England somewhere.”
“Ledge, hills, woods, damn hard living. After five years out of there I didn’t have any idea that if I went back how I’d earn a living. My little town is grist mills, a store, a little hotel. I knew almost everybody and they all have to scratch out a living, heavy snow, cold enough to freeze an Eskimo. I wanted more. My Dad’s getting remarried to a woman with a family and my sister has her own family. So when my regiment was disbanded I decided to stay down here and see what might happen.”
“What does your father do?”
“My father is the village handyman, does odd jobs for the businesses. I’d have had to make my own career. I couldn’t do worse here. If I do, I can always go back.”
She was silent for a minute, too. Then: “You have courage to start out on your own.”
“Maybe. But I can’t do worse here I figure.”
“That’s enough for tonight. Don’t let the rattlers get you.”
I didn’t sleep very soundly that night. Once I tossed a stick onto the embers and it flared up. A few times I thought that I heard scratching like something in or on the brush fence, but I didn’t let myself visualize a long, brightly colored snake working his way into our little camp. I must have fallen into a deep sleep before dawn because I awoke to Jennifer piling the fence onto the fire that was flaring up, and resting a tiny coffee pot on the heap of sticks.
The Texas settlements we passed through were all much the same, no businesses, barely more than spots where we fed and watered the horses. The ranches were run down, some of them only remnants from battles which had no names or feuds between families competing for water rights or range. The people we met were wary of us, probably because we were better turned out. We stopped by a stream on the next afternoon, watered the horses and hitched them where they could graze on a green stretch along the side of the stream.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Vermont?”
“A bath.”
She went to a saddle bag and produced two chunks of soap. She dropped onto the green patch and began to pull off her boots. “Vermont, have you ever had a woman?”
I was startled and said nothing, instead working to get my boots off.
I yanked one boot off and fumbled with the other.
“I’ll take that as a ‘No’. I never had a man until Spence and I were married. Never even came close. I was scared to death what it might be like and didn’t want to be pregnant. So was he. We fumbled around most of the wedding night, and I found out that I wanted it, and he was afraid of it. He said he didn’t know what it was or how to do it. That made two of us.” Her boots were off and she pulled her jacket off and drew her shirt from inside her pants. “And the trouble was neither of us could teach the other. So we’re still fumbling along.”
My socks were off. I was still wondering where this was leading, other than to washing in the stream.
Jennifer sprang up and strode away from me, upstream and toward a clump of shrubs. She moved behind the bushes. In a minute she emerged toward the water, obviously naked, and plunged into the stream. “You too, Vermont. I don’t want to smell your sweat anymore,” she shouted. She splashed in the water that became murky from her soap.
I stood up and shucked off my clothes, picked up my chunk of soap, and walked toward the water. I waded swiftly into the water, only momentarily shrinking back from the chill, up to my waist and finally hurling myself under the water. I soaped myself, jumping up and down, whirling about and standing on a spit of land while I covered myself in lather, thoughtless of whether Jennifer might see me. I turned to look in her direction and she was doing the same thing, upright, water only as far as her calves, turning about and covered with soap. I called “You look beautiful.”
She said nothing, but waved, then plunged again toward the deeper water, eventually vanishing except for her head that she dipped again and again under the water, running her hands over her long hair.
I returned to the water and plunged in and rubbed my hands over myself until the slickness of the soap had gone. I edged into shallower water and threw the piece of soap onto the shore.
Suddenly
hands were on my back. “You have fine shoulders.”
The thrill of her voice and her touch ran through me. “You startled me.”
Her hands were under my arms. Her breasts were against my back. “Don’t you like it?”
“I’d be stupid not to.” I kept wading, water now only to my breast.
Her hands moved lower, onto my abdomen, then my hips.
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Yes, I know, and I hope you know what I want you to do. This is why we became clean and fresh. Turn around.”
I turned quickly.
She grasped my head and pressed her lips against mine.
I followed her urging and pressed my lips against hers.
“Now, back up onto the shore, the grass will be good for my back.”
We edged from the water, me backing up, she moving forward and guiding me, our hands keeping doing what they had been doing. When we were on the ground she moved us to one side until I felt the soft grass under my feet.
A horse whinnied and moved about. I heard it but didn’t care.
Jennifer wheeled about, still grasping me.
I’m not sure that I have a clear recollection of more until we were dressing, close together and with no feelings of modesty or shame.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At Sinton we swapped our horses and tack for tickets on the San Antonio and Aransas Pass Railroad. At San Antonio we took separate rooms at the Mansion house near the Wells Fargo stage station. After a swift supper we retired for the night. Shortly after we went to our rooms Jennifer tapped on my door, and the night was spent less in sleeping than in repeating our congress at the river.
In the morning we climbed onto the stage headed for Austin. Three men and two women shared the ride, which made for little intimate conversation between Jennifer and me. When we emerged from the coach Jennifer said “We’ll walk, the office is two blocks from the Capitol and I wired him that we’d be here about now.” When the crowd had thinned she took me by the hand and led me to a bench along the street. “We need to talk. How do you feel about the last couple of days?”
“How should I feel? I think I’m in love with you.”
She shook her head. “I was afraid of that. I may have made a mistake pushing myself on to you too quickly. But I didn’t believe that I’d have a better chance. Nate, you’re misunderstanding the situation. The deal I offered you is still the deal, and it’s business, only business. I love Spence, but he’s had trouble satisfying my needs. You’ve done that for now, and I’m glad for that.”
“Doesn’t it mean anything to you?”
“Your question is really asking whether I’m a slut, whether I give myself to every man. I’ll bet you heard about women like that in the service.”
“We were urged to avoid---never mind.”
She took my hand and pressed it to her cheek. “Don’t mistake your feelings for me for love. I’m enjoying your desire for me as much as my desire for you.” She released my hand and stood up. She led the way along the street.
I struggled to my feet and followed her, confused and yet elated for what she had said. Perhaps she was right, maybe my feelings weren’t love, only something else, lust included, but more than that. I hadn’t felt this since Prudence in High School had turned me down in favor of Enoch. And I hoped that Jennifer and I might gratify our lusts once in a while.
Abruptly Jennifer led me onto a narrow side street and then in a door upon which was the handwritten sign “Spence Acherson Security.”
I was about to meet a man with whose wife I had just engaged several acts of adultery. I was nervous, but not afraid.
Spence Acherson was seated behind a table backed against a window, studying a diagram of some sort. He was looking up, at the sound of the door opening and closing. He was blond, hair long to his shoulders, with a close cropped mustache and a pockmarked face. An Eastern style suit coat and string tie over a stark white and frilly shirt gave the appearance of a dandy. He was not smiling. He made no effort to stand.
“Hello, Spence,” she said with a smile. “Still planning the rounds?”
“Yes, it’s been a tough go. Unless I have a scheme for it, the committee may turn us down. Who’s this, the hot shot you wired about?”
She pulled me around in front of her. “Nate Gould, Spence Acherson.”
“You’re the one who shot it out with a gang of Mexes to protect the Fed’s money? That’s good. Jennifer and I are both Unionists. But don’t tell anybody here that you did anything good for the Feds just that you fought off the Mexes. What sort of pistol and rifle do you favor?”
“Only a ’51 Navy.”
“He doesn’t have a belt and holster,” said Jennifer.
“We’ll fix that.” Spence stood up and leaned over the table and held out his right hand. “We have two other men, one’s an old timer, was in the Rangers before the War. The other is a greenhorn with no experience, but he’s local and is enthusiastic. Four will be enough: one for each eight hour shift, with me to back up if needed. The committee wants us to have an office on premises, where I can sleep to back up. We need to see that our young friend has accommodations and some walking around money.” He slumped back at the desk.
Jennifer led me from the office and through a labyrinth of streets and alleys to a small hotel on a bit of a knoll from which the Capitol was visible. I registered and Jennifer handed me a bunch of greenbacks. She bid me good bye, without even a touch of the hand. “Be at the office at 8 o’clock. The address is 181 Houston Street.”
I was physically worn out and emotionally at sixes and sevens. I spent the early evening at an Anglo type restaurant and saloon with a steak and potato dinner and a couple of beers before returning to my room. I unloaded and cleaned my pistol and set out reloads for the following day and read the local newspaper: reports on the state’s struggle to recover from the aftermath of the War; deaths of several citizens in knifings and gunplay; a Governor’s appointment of people to state offices; layouts of several roads forming what the reporter called a residential subdivision on the eastern outskirts; opening of two new churches, including a Catholic Franciscan mission chapel to serve the Mexican community; reconstruction of the railroad depot at Round Rock; reports of cattle rustling among drives heading toward Abilene.
After a sound night’s rest I worked my way back to the office, where two other men were chatting with Spence. He introduced them and thus began my tenure as one of the security staff for the Capitol. The work was not difficult, the man on duty would circle the building almost continuously, but not in a predictable fashion, with a dark lantern at the ready and packing a side arm, in my case my ’51 Navy, the holster and belt being provided by Spence. Uniforms were Confederate gray denim and cap and boots, a petty defiance of the Federal troops on Reconstruction duty and to whom I was required to report any problem.
Spence, indeed, was on the premises, in an office on the first floor, next to the columned front of the building and the flight of stone steps leading up to the ceremonial front door. He was able to look out onto the other guard as he made his rounds and come out if a guard seemed to have missed a round or if he heard of some sort of trouble. In theory he was expected to be there, even sleep there on a cot, all hours, but felt comfortable enough to leave during the daytime, the most anxious time being after the staff and political people left about 6 PM and until midnight. In practice Spence was there during the nighttime hours, sleeping from about midnight to 7 AM.
My shift was 8AM to 4 PM. Pistol at the hip and back in uniform, although rebel gray, I very briefly encountered the various persons who entered and left the characterless block building with the onion like cupola on the roof. It was so stark compared to the new Vermont Capitol that my high school class had visited, with its dome, similar to that of the National Capitol. I couldn’t avoid the feeling that I was guarding a bank or simply an antebellum plantation mansion.
The people coming and going---all men, except fo
r a couple of simply attired young women, who I speculated were clerical---were mostly well turned out in Western garb of various types, some sporting remnants of Confederate uniforms, and once in a while packing a pistol of the same type as I wore at the hip. Most of them nodded or muttered a greeting to me, as if I was a servant. Occasionally a man, usually in mufti, especially one who had exchanged greetings previously, would smile or otherwise show some sort of animation, and I would make an effort to enhance the interaction. I would comment on the weather or the prospective weather, or hope that his day would be, or was, fruitful, or note that his limp of one or two days ago seemed improved. Rarely, one of them, especially those showing some Confederate trapping, would flick me a salute, to which I would respond in kind.
I made it a point to try to catch fragments of conversation, both while on duty and off, that might indicate the sort of goings on at the Capitol. Mutterings about Senator or Representative so-and-so being agreeable or difficult, comments on a Fed officer needing a whipping, complaints that railroad and road construction was being held up, gripes about one or another bad or good constitutional or statutory provision were commonplace but were not really helpful toward me getting to know how the state was getting on.
One afternoon I had to intervene between two men who were beginning a fist fight at the foot of the portico steps. I was especially concerned because one of them was full length in Confederate gray and the other wore a Union jacket and both wore pistols.
“Stay out of this, boy,” cried the man in gray. “We’ll settle this the Texas way, not like you Yankees do.”
My arms were stretched out, pushing both men so they couldn’t reach each other. I was immediately in wonder at how this man knew I was a Northerner. I quickly tried to defuse the situation with a touch of humor: “Settle it when and how you like, but not here, I’ll have a lot of paperwork and mess to clean up.”
The apparent Yankee burst out laughing. “He’s right, Grif, we shouldn’t make work for this man.” He seemed to stop pushing against my arm.
The other man relaxed some. He looked at me. “Where do you suggest, sir?”