“Walk with me a ways?” Thompson asked.
“I’m used up,” Upperdine said, glancing back toward his home. “To what purpose?”
“A business proposition,” Thompson said, leading Upperdine. Upperdine grunted and followed on horseback. He was constitutionally unable to resist the lure of commerce. They reached the stubble of the wheat field and continued past for a quarter-mile. Finally, Thompson turned to Upperdine.
“This land, from the wheat field to here and up to that rise,” Thompson said, pointing across the flat floodplain to a low crest.
“What about it?” Upperdine asked.
“I want it.”
Captain Upperdine smiled. “This is, what, a couple hundred acres?”
“Closer to four hundred,” Thompson said. “I’ve paced it off.”
“I was not aware you are a man of such means,” Upperdine said.
“I think this section will yield abundantly,” Thompson continued.
“Benito grazes his goats on that hill,” Upperdine said.
“Yes, but he has told me he has no wish to grow his cropland beyond the irrigated parcel he now holds.”
“Still, this is fine natural pasture.”
“Passable,” Thompson said, “when rain falls. That is what gave me the idea that it might produce wheat as well.”
“And Benito’s goats?” Upperdine asked.
“Goats can make do on most any forage,” Thompson said, brusquely. “His herd is small. Open range abounds.” Even as he spoke, Thompson sensed, and as quickly dismissed, the minor betrayal.
Upperdine chuckled. “A future land baron, here. Corner the market on wheat.” Then his expression hardened. “Do you have the funds? One-twenty an acre.”
“I will pay over time, as the crops come in.”
Upperdine chuckled again, but his tone conveyed no humor. “I’m not a banker, Mr. Grey.”
“You’ve seen how wheat takes to this land. You know my work. My word,” Thompson said. “Give me three years.” He did not like looking up at Captain Upperdine, who had remained in the saddle. “I’ll expand the acreage each year and be turning a profit in three.”
“I have no doubt concerning your ambition,” Upperdine said. “I recognized it long before you did. But this is a hard country and has broken better men than the both of us.”
They fell silent, looking over the land. A muddled sky produced thunder. Upperdine turned his eyes upward.
“Wouldn’t do to be hailed out,” he said.
Thompson recognized the false promise of rain, the lack of humidity, did not answer. An antelope showed briefly on the rise but sensed them and dropped back out of sight behind the far slope.
“How much have you?” Upperdine asked. Thompson retrieved the coins from his pocket and opened his hand. Gold, and silver.
“That will see you twenty-five acres,” Upperdine said. “A good start.”
“A dollar and twenty is what the best land commands,” Thompson said.
Upperdine regarded Thompson with narrowed eyes. “Forty acres,” he said. “More than you could put up in crops. Take your pick of the land.”
“Will you hold the acreage around it in reserve for me?” Thompson asked.
“I can’t promise that,” Upperdine said.
Thompson closed his fingers over the coins. “I’ll give it some thought,” he said.
“Don’t think on it for too long,” Upperdine warned. “My generous nature is vaporish.”
ALMOST DAILY, THOMPSON FOUND EXCUSE to walk to the town site. From a distance he observed Ansell Foster set his ranging rod and direct Joseph to make perfectly straight the chain. Whenever they paused for Foster to make notations in his chart book or to change locations, Joseph approached the surveyor, animated. Several days into the effort, Thompson intercepted Foster returning from the site.
“Joseph working out?” Thompson asked, after pleasantries.
“Raw, but eager,” Foster said. “The boy is inquisitive. To a fault.”
“I’d not realized his interest in surveying,” Thompson said.
“It’s not so much the work he’s interested in,” Foster said. “He wants to know everything about Kansas. Who will run for governor? Who heads the militia? Any recent conflicts between pro-slave and abolitionists? Where? On and on, to distraction.”
“He’s left relatives there,” Thompson said.
SLOWLY, THE PINS FOSTER AND Joseph had sunk into the ground began to define a shape to the town, building lots set along two bisecting streets. The town took form in Thompson’s imagination, and he grew increasingly anxious. Captain Upperdine grew anxious as well, but with impatience. At the beginning of the second week of surveying, Upperdine rode out to Bent’s Post to recruit additional crew for Foster. Midmorning the following day, Foster searched out Thompson, who was turning water into Benito’s orchard. The last irrigation of the season. The river ran slow.
“Is Joseph about?” Foster asked, agitated.
“He’s not with you, I take it,” Thompson said.
“Been waiting half the day. Not a damn thing to be done without a chainman,” Foster said.
Thompson left Foster at his cabin with a cup of coffee and went to Carlos’s camp by the river. No sign of habitation, the fire pit cold. He rejoined Foster and together they walked to the placita and questioned Hanna. She’d not seen Joseph since they’d all shared supper upon Foster’s arrival.
“He’s timed it for Upperdine’s absence,” Thompson said.
“Timed what?” Foster asked. Hanna’s face went blank. She knew, Thompson saw, but was unwilling to express her emotions.
“There will be a horse missing from Captain Upperdine’s stock,” Thompson said. “And tack as well, I fear.”
“You confound me,” Foster said.
“Joseph. He’s off. Wyandotte. Or Council Grove, perhaps. Wherever he might find a militia to join.”
CAPTAIN UPPERDINE RETURNED DURING THE evening with two men sitting in the bed of his wagon. They appeared ragged, red-eyed and surly. Upperdine, by contrast, was in high spirits. Hanna and Thompson stood with Foster and Genoveva on the porch to greet him.
“Got you some help,” he said to Foster, and, turning to Thompson, grinned.
“Stood these men some whiskey. Now they get to work it off.” Upperdine climbed down and motioned Foster aboard. “Take them to the site. They can pitch camp there with you.” As Foster drove off, Upperdine called out, laughing. “Best keep them downwind until they sweat it out.”
When the wagon had pulled away, Thompson said, “I’ve news,” and watched Upperdine’s mood darken as he recounted Joseph’s theft.
“Which horse?” Upperdine asked, pacing the yard, enraged.
“The sorrel with the white blaze, I believe,” Thompson said.
“Damn him, that’s a fine animal. When?” Upperdine asked.
“Not sure,” Thompson said. “Sometime yesterday evening, I’d guess.”
“I can overtake him,” Upperdine said.
“Wait!” Hanna said. Her eyes had been darting between Thompson and Upperdine. “Captain, I ask you, let him be.”
“Be?” Upperdine shouted. “What kind of man would accept my hospitality, come into my home, and then steal my property?”
“He’s a boy yet,” Hanna said. “Impulsive.”
“He’s a man now,” Upperdine said. “A man who has gravely miscalculated my nature.”
“Please,” Hanna said, and now she looked directly at Thompson. He felt her desperation.
“It’s better that he’s gone,” Thompson said, and even as he spoke he believed it. “He’s a troubled sort. Of a mind to avenge his father’s murder.”
“He’ll never come across those men,” Upperdine said.
“Close enough kin to them, I suspect.”
“He has my horse. My gear,” Upperdine said.
Hanna continued to hold Thompson with her eyes. He felt trapped.
“I’ll pay for them,” Thom
pson said, retrieving the gold coins from his pocket, holding them out. Upperdine examined the coins as if unfamiliar with the shiny trinkets.
“A fine animal,” he said.
“You well know this is all I possess,” Thompson said.
Upperdine looked across the yard toward his livestock, measuring worth against the inconvenience of giving chase. Finally he accepted the coins.
“If ever he shows himself, he’ll be the worse for it,” Upperdine said.
“He will not return,” Hanna said. “Nothing remains for him in this place.”
IN THE MORNING, THOMPSON DID not go to the fields directly. He sat outside his cabin on the stump and built a fire in the stone ring and made coffee and thought about things while absently whittling. A part of him felt released finally from any sense of obligation toward Hanna Light. He’d traded gold for Joseph’s unhampered escape. Into what future, Thompson had no clue. Could he even make it unmolested to eastern Kansas? And if he did, could he find peace? Thompson doubted it, but felt relief. If Joseph was destined for a life of confrontation and conflict, at least it would not play out here in the valley. Thompson had tried to help the boy, failed, but at least he’d brokered a resolution. A burden lifted. But with gold intended to secure his initial foothold in the valley. One debt to Hanna paid, but his craving for the land unabated for lack of funds. Thompson considered Upperdine’s offer, turning it over in his mind, searching for any positive slant.
In the field below the placita he watched Carlos and Benito working the corn. Teresa dug in the garden beside the south wall of the placita, unearthing onions and carrots. Goats browsed the higher ground to the west. Benito had begun a future and Thompson envied him. His family would settle comfortably here, and as long as the river flowed, his field would produce. During the summer, he’d made bricks and built another room at the placita for Paloma. Already, expansion. But it was not Thompson’s intent simply to homestead. He desired more, had his sight on supplying wheat to market. And for that, he’d require ten times the acreage Benito farmed. Twenty times as much. And, now he lacked funds for even a modest beginning; he lacked equipment; he lacked seed. But, if he could secure land, the rest would eventually follow.
His thoughts inward, Thompson failed to notice Genoveva approaching until she lightly brushed his shoulder. He started but quickly recovered.
“Good morning, Señora Upperdine,” Thompson said, standing. “Can I offer you coffee?”
“Hello, Mr. Grey. Will you walk?”
“Of course.”
They continued upriver exchanging small talk until they arrived at the section Thompson earlier had shown the Captain. Genoveva pointed to the wheat patch.
“This is a dry land,” she said. “And yet it prospered.”
“It did,” Thompson agreed.
“Not much prospers in this country.”
“Not without rain.”
“You’ve thought it out.”
“Obadiah’s wheat holds promise.”
“A plan for the future,” she said.
“Fantasy, perhaps,” he said. “A child’s dream. Foolishness.”
“The Captain will hold this acreage for a time,” Genoveva said. “Until you can either raise funds or give up that dream.”
Thompson heard the words but did not comprehend. He had no money, of course, but stood riveted by the proposition. “I beg your pardon?”
“The Captain will not sell the land you requested. Not for three years.”
“That is kind of you to offer,” Thompson said. “But I should come to terms with him.”
“That is not necessary.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The land is mine,” Genoveva said.
Her words echoed in his mind. He remained mute, unable to form a response.
“The Captain and I have an agreement,” Genoveva said. “I leave business decisions to him. But, in this case, I intervened.”
“The land is yours?”
“Yes. Part of a land grant to my grandfather. I became heir to a tract. When the territory fell into American hands, I accepted the Captain’s proposal for marriage. The prospect of retaining ownership seemed much improved by taking an American husband.”
“A marriage of convenience?” Thompson asked before thinking through his words, and immediately regretted his forwardness. Genoveva did not show offense.
“We share affection,” Genoveva explained. “The Captain courted me long before I agreed to marry him. The problem is that he too much loves his freedom, the freedom of the trail. He cares for me.” Genoveva paused, glanced at Thompson and then out over the land. “But he also cares for his trail wife in Westport, his Indian wife. And others, I am certain.”
Stunned, Thompson again fell silent for a time. “I’d taken a higher measure of him.”
“Oh, he has fine qualities,” Genoveva said. She brought a hand to his shoulder, tenderly, in comfort. “Evil men do exist in this world. Saints also, perhaps, although I’ve never personally encountered one. But most of us are both good and bad, don’t you agree?”
“I suppose,” Thompson said.
“The test of a decent person is to elevate our saintly instincts above our evil ones, yes?”
“You possess more lofty thoughts than I,” Thompson said, and then, “Thank you for your kindness.”
“You have a difficult path, still,” Genoveva said. “Currency is hard to come by.”
“A chance is all I could hope for.”
“I do have motives,” she said. “I fear Benito will continue to be hobbled into the future. I hope Carlos will be here to assist him, but that is no certainty. And the Captain of course has neither the skills nor the interest.”
“Of course,” Thompson said.
THOMPSON FOUND SLEEP AGAIN ELUSIVE that night. Genoveva’s intercession bought time, but surely would alter his relationship with John Upperdine from this day forward. How to approach him? And how to make good on the opportunity presented?
When finally sleep did come, he was visited by a dream, old and familiar. He stood outside his cabin on the low bluff. An orange sun inched above the eastern horizon while the moon, pocked and full, still shone in the west. He looked out over his holdings, the wheat silver in the flanking light, stretching beyond the reach of his vision, filling the entire valley, fading into shadow. All of it, his.
He woke. Clammy, acutely aware of his heart, a furiously beating otherness; his heart, betraying his deepest fears, exposing him to his truth. A truth he denied.
WHEN THOMPSON FIRST BROACHED HIS request, Benito continued hoeing in the bean field as if he had not heard, but Thompson could see the impact, the muscles of Benito’s jaw working. The bean plants were knee-high and the pods swollen.
“I do not covet your land,” Thompson said.
“So you’ve said.”
“You do not believe me?” Thompson asked.
“I believe that you believe yourself,” Benito said. “But I see you afield, pacing off your domain. I see you staring off into the distance, laying out crops, pasturing animals in your mind.”
“Your vision is more acute than mine,” Thompson said. “My design is more modest. I want only to trade my share of the corn harvest this autumn for produce now. To sell. To buy a small parcel from Captain Upperdine.”
“Then you will be without cornmeal for winter,” Benito said.
“I made do largely without last winter.”
“We have so little to spare,” Benito said, talking to the hoe.
“Think of it as an investment.” Thompson knew that every egg he begged, every pound of butter, of cheese, would deprive Benito’s family until the full harvest began. But his plan depended upon it. Eggs, cheese, butter. A few half-ripe melons, this constituted his capital. Hungry miners his market, clamoring for fresh food and willing to pay dearly for any small morsel not looking or tasting like hardtack or rancid fatback.
“You won’t have to sacrifice,” Thompson continued. �
�One-tenth of the proceeds will be yours plus the additional corn. With your share, you can buy flour at the mercantile, coffee, a little sugar, perhaps. The boys would love sugar.”
Without giving it voice, Thompson knew the leverage he exerted over Benito, counted on it. Without Thompson’s help, only a fraction of the crops could have been planted last spring. A piddling harvest, another cold and hungry winter to dread. Thompson could see the weight of these obligations settle on Benito as he worried his hoe between the rows.
30
The wagon loaded, Thompson climbed aboard and slapped the haunches of the team Upperdine had chosen for the trip. The Captain insisted that he employ horses. “You carry perishables and you travel alone, both arguments for speed.” Thompson was more accustomed to mules or oxen, but could not fault the Captain’s logic. His destination: the near goldfields, the Fountain Creek stakes, and other rough camps pitched beside the rivulets and streams veining the foothills. He did not know what to expect, only that with luck he’d meet prospectors with a few flakes of gold and large appetites.
As he guided the wagon from the Upperdines’ compound, Carlos approached, calling, leading the burro and, in the cart, Benito. Benito climbed down with Carlos’s help and held out a cloth package. “More butter,” he said. “Fresh-churned.” Thompson halted the team. Benito passed the butter to Thompson and caught hold of the wagon siding and hitched onto the bench and fit his broad hat about his head, pulling it firm, and propped his walking staff against the front board. Carlos handed up a rucksack, which Benito stored beneath the bench.
“This is not a good idea,” Thompson said. “Sitting for long stretches will stiffen your leg. The road will jostle.”
“My leg will be fine.”
“The mining territory is rough, and the tolerance for Mexicans is not high. Or so Captain Upperdine reports.”
“I think tolerance increases with the value of the goods you carry,” Benito said.
THEY TRAVELED EACH TO HIS thoughts, the clump of hooves on packed dirt stupefying, the creaking sway of the wagon over gentle swells and troughs. The breeze wandered across the tableland, occasionally raising dust devils that swirled up from the trail like snakes coiling to strike. Thompson studied the rising dust. An omen? He and Benito riding alone, his senses peaked. He noticed bends in the trail, rifts in the land, hiding what? A vast, open wildness. If Benito shared Thompson’s heightened vigilance, he did not show it. He rested behind the cover of his hat, low over his eyes. Thompson followed the trail for as long as it paralleled the Arkansas River. When the passage dipped southeast, Thompson kept to the river with plans of locating Fountain Creek and turning north, hugging the low hills, all the way to the diggings at Cherry Creek if need be.
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