The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  As he sat in the richly appointed foyer of the First Western Bank, his crates of gold at his feet and still wearing his miner’s clothes, he was uncomfortable and felt out of place. An officious looking man, dressed in a suit, approached him, and Tom stood, respectfully removing his cap and holding it in front of him. He smiled nervously as the man addressed him.

  “Mr. Callahan?”

  “Aye, sir,” Tom replied.

  “Allow me, Mr. Callahan,” the man said, gesturing to several of the bank’s younger employees to carry the crates.

  Not wishing to give offense, but intent on safeguarding his stash, Tom stood protectively over the crates, until the smiling banker succeeded in assuring him that all would be well. “We’ll just weigh and measure your gold, Mr. Callahan. I can guarantee you that everything will be satisfactory,” he smiled again. “Please, sir, step this way into my office.”

  Turning to a young woman seated behind a nearby desk, the banker’s tone changed. “You there, girl, bring some coffee into my office for Mr. Callahan,” he demanded. Then turning again to Tom, he said politely, “Right this way, sir.”

  Once in the office, Tom took a chair as offered but declined a cigar. “The First Western Bank will be pleased if you consider our complete facilities at your disposal, Mr. Callahan.”

  “Much obliged,” Tom replied.

  The young woman entered, carrying a tray loaded with an ornate silver urn, two empty cups, and a sugar bowl. She poured the cups full and nervously served one to the bank official and one to Tom. As she reached to place the cup on the desk in front of Tom, she accidentally sloshed a small amount out of the cup, onto the shoulder of Tom’s jacket.

  Instantly angry, the banker quickly stepped to Tom’s side, using his handkerchief to wipe the spill from the jacket.

  “You stupid, stupid girl,” he shouted. She stepped backward, holding her hand over her mouth, and began to apologize. Her boss continued to berate her, calling her a clumsy oaf and ordering her out of his office.

  Before she could leave, Tom rose to his feet and said to the banker, “Hold on a minute.”

  Turning to the girl, Tom smiled kindly and said, “You’ll have to excuse him, Miss. He doesn’t know how it is you speak to a lady.”

  She glanced at her employer and then back at Tom. “It was my fault. I’m sorry, sir,” she said.

  “Not to worry, lass,” Tom said. “This jacket’s seen much worse the past year,” he laughed.

  Turning to the banker, Tom looked at him for some few seconds, then turned back and asked the young woman, “Would there be another bank close at hand?”

  Again, she looked toward her employer before responding. But Tom continued without reference to the surprised banker.

  “Another bank?” he asked again, smiling.

  “Uh, yes, sir. The Bank of Seattle is on the corner, just down the street.”

  “Would you mind goin’ to the Bank of Seattle and askin’ them to send a couple of men to assist me with my crates?” Tom asked.

  “But, sir,” she hesitated, looking again toward her employer.

  “Don’t be concerned over your job, lass,” Tom smiled. “How much does this bank pay you?”

  “Uh, well, uh, six dollars a week, sir.”

  “Aye. ’Tis an important task I’m askin’ of ye, lass. ’Tis worth fifty dollars to me to have you notify the Bank of Seattle that I have a deposit to make, and,” he added, reaching for her hand and walking her toward the door, “I’ll be happy to put in a good word for you with the bank manager there.”

  “Sir, I must protest,” the banker said as he stepped toward the pair.

  Tom turned his attention back to the banker. “Aye, and so you should. Would you have your men bring my crates to the front door of your bank?” Tom said to the man.

  “But Mr. Callahan, we can reach an accord. She’s just a foolish girl. Surely you don’t, . . .”

  “Aye, but I do, sir,” Tom replied, exiting the office and striding toward the bank entrance, with the banker trailing behind and continuing to protest.

  Within two hours, Tom had deposited his gold in the Bank of Seattle, helped the young woman find new employment, and also obtained directions to a men’s clothier. Emerging an hour or so later, Tom was attired in what the proprietor assured him was the latest in fashionable dress for the successful man, and he was carrying a valise packed with additional new clothing.

  Tom was beginning to understand what it means when people say “money talks.” It was evident to him that, at least on the surface, there was only one difference between the classes: money.

  Over the next couple of days, Tom found a lawyer and presented his case of self-defense in the Kansas City incident. Through an exchange of telegrams with an attorney in Kansas City, the lawyer was able to determine that the police inquiry into the death of one Isaac Skomolski had found that his was a “death by misadventure” and that the case had been closed right after the inquest was held.

  Until that word was received, Tom spent a very nervous two nights, fully anticipating a return to Kansas City to answer a charge of murder. When the attorney informed him what he had learned, Tom sat before him, stunned, scarcely daring to believe what he was hearing. Wanting to make sure he understood what he had been told, he asked, “Are ye tellin’ me, sir, that I’ve no need to run anymore?”

  “That’s correct, Mr. Callahan. The sad thing is that there was no need to run at all, not then and not now. You’re a free man,” the lawyer assured him, “and a mighty rich one too, from all accounts. Where will you go, sir?”

  Tom stood and walked to the window of the attorney’s office. Looking out across Puget Sound to the distant tree-covered islands, he said, “San Francisco, I guess, then back to Ireland, maybe.”

  “I see. May I be so bold as to offer some advice?” the elderly lawyer said, coming to stand beside Tom.

  Tom turned to face the older man. “You’ve brought me nothin’ but good news so far,” Tom said. “What else would you have to tell me?”

  “When you get to San Francisco, see a man named Simonsen—Gary Simonsen. He is a very astute businessman who brokers proven mining claims. When news of the Portland reached San Francisco, Simonsen sent me a communiqué asking for referrals. His immediate interest is in available sites in Alaska, and his services could prove invaluable to you, if you wish to dispose of your claim.”

  “You trust this, uh, Simonsen, you said?”

  “Totally.”

  “Fine,” Tom replied, shaking hands. “Thank you for your help.”

  “It was my pleasure, Mr. Callahan. May God go with you, sir.”

  A broad smile crossed Tom’s face. “I believe He already has, sir. Indeed, He already has.”

  The morning the steamer left for San Francisco, Tom wired Sister Mary to advise he had returned from Alaska and to inform her that he wished to establish a fund for Holy Cross Hospital. He told her he was heading for San Francisco, intent on staying at the Grand Union Hotel where she could contact him the following week. He made no mention of his thought to return to Ireland.

  Upon his arrival at the Grand Union Hotel in San Francisco, Tom found a telegram from Anders Hansen waiting.

  Sister Mary advised your arrival. Need your help to find Katrina. Arriving San Francisco twenty-eighth. Please wait. Anders.

  The term “find Katrina” puzzled Tom, and the time available for speculation before Andy’s arrival only added to his concern. Finally, two days before Anders’s arrival, Tom followed the advice of the Seattle lawyer and sought the offices of one Gary Simonsen.

  Simonsen was all that the lawyer had said. In short order, Tom was offered a staggering sum of money for Emerald One and Emerald Two, his two claims in the Yukon, near Rabbit Creek. After verifying that Tom had deposited exactly two million, three hundred thousand, seven hundred and eighty-three dollars in the Seattle bank, from only eight months of work, Mr. Simonsen offered Tom two million dollars on the spot for his two claims.
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  “Two million?” Tom said, hesitantly. “For two claims on the richest stream in Alaska? How many other claims have you bought so far, Mr. Simonsen?”

  Simonsen looked Tom over, smiled broadly and stuck out his hand. “Three million, then, Mr. Callahan, cash in the bank tomorrow, and we’re done. More than double your take last winter,” he laughed, “and with far less effort.”

  Tom grasped his hand and smiled. “Good doing business with you, Mr. Simonsen.”

  Simonsen grabbed his hat and cane, and took Tom’s arm. “C’mon, lad. You’re going to get the best steak in this town, and, if you’re willing to reconsider your plans to return to Ireland, I propose to give you a free lesson in how to turn your five million dollars, plus a couple ’o hundred thousand in change,” he laughed, “into some real money. Interested?”

  “You’re calling the shots, Mr. Simonsen. Lead on.”

  “‘Buck,’ lad. Everybody calls me ‘Buck.’”

  Returning to his hotel late that evening, Tom was greeted by Anders, who was waiting nervously in the lobby. Overshadowing the joy of their reunion, was the news Anders brought.

  That Katrina had relocated in Mexico was astonishing news to Tom, and the disaster in Mazatlán added to the puzzle. He had never imagined such a thing, and the possibility that she was missing, and perhaps dead, was almost more than he could bear. It had never occurred to him that Katrina was anywhere, other than safe in Salt Lake City, and he was stunned by the news.

  Anders told Tom that he had telegraphed Don Sebastian Cardenas, the man from whom Magnus Stromberg had arranged the purchase of the land, requesting additional information, but no answer had been received. One of the colonists had made it out of Mexico, and a sketchy report of the destruction of New Hope had been published in some newspapers. But that was all Anders had been able to learn. It was his plan to leave immediately for Mazatlán to find Katrina and bring her out of Mexico, if in fact, she was alive and could be found. He hoped Tom would go with him.

  Lars Hansen had put up a reward for information leading to his daughter’s safe return, but he had advised Anders against going to Mexico to search for her. The political climate was too dangerous, he said, and he didn’t want to lose Anders also. Anders explained to Tom that he had told his father he must go. Someone must. But Anders had not told his father of the telegram he’d sent to Tom Callahan and of his plans to meet the Irishman in San Francisco.

  After a night’s sleep and further consideration, Tom explained to Anders that he had some reservations about making the trip.

  “It’s simple, Andy. She told me once she could no longer see me. I don’t want to interfere in her life again. If she and Stromberg are still alive, then they have no need of me.”

  “But what if Harold isn’t? What if the rumors are true, and he’s dead?” Anders pleaded.

  “Andy, I’m committed to goin’ with you and doin’ what we can. But I just want you to know that if they’re still alive and well, I’ll need to back out and disappear. I’ve no right to be pursuin’ Mrs. Stromberg. D’ya understand, Andy?”

  “I do, Tom. We’ll proceed cautiously. When can we leave?”

  “I looked into that when I got up this morning. We can board a freighter tomorrow afternoon and be there in a couple of days.”

  “Good. Now, how about we obtain some supplies and maybe a map of Mazatlán, if we can find one? I think we’ve got a task on our hands, Tom.”

  “It’s more than a task, Andy. It could well be Katrina’s life.”

  For six weeks, Katrina lived and cared for Teresa’s baby in the shelter of a small hut she had been provided, many miles from the ruined colony at New Hope. The tiny structure, located at the top of a steep sandy beach on the ocean, was really more of a bower, open on two sides, constructed of poles with a thatched roof. It afforded only the barest shelter from the heavy rain storms that often developed during the afternoons, but it did provide shade for Katrina and the baby during the heat of the day.

  She lived in isolation. No word on the fate of the colonists was available to her, and except for a few rudimentary Spanish words she had learned from Teresa, the only way she could communicate with the two or three local Mexicans she had seen, was by sign language. Winter was, she presumed, not far away, and although she knew it would not bring the snow of Utah or Norway, she worried about how the baby would cope with colder temperatures.

  She depended for food and water on a Mexican family that was living several hundred yards down the beach. The man, a surly, toothless fellow, brought fish from his catch and provided a daily gourd of warm, foul-tasting drinking water to Katrina, a task that she could see he resented, but one which she assumed Miguel required of him.

  Miguel had returned only once, since depositing Katrina on the beach. That visit provided the goat, now staked nearby, which was furnishing the milk that was sustaining the baby. During his brief visit, Miguel had taken no interest in the infant, and Katrina had not told him that the baby was Teresa’s.

  Why Miguel had not killed her, and whether or not such a fate had befallen the other occupants of the wagon in which she had been riding, she didn’t know. Miguel had been very angry and had not conversed, other than to tell her to remain here and to inform her she would be fed. If she attempted to leave, he had warned, she would die. He then rode away, returning only once, the next morning, when he brought the goat.

  For the first several days after her arrival on the beach, Katrina had moved about in a stupor. She ached all over from being thrown from the buggy into the ravine where Teresa had died, and her hands and wrists and face became sunburned and swollen. Barely able to care for herself, she had to force herself to look to the needs of Teresa’s baby. She tore up her petticoats to use for diapers, washing them out in the surf when they became soiled, and struggled to learn how to milk the goat efficiently to provide milk for the infant. The heat, blowing sand, and an infestation of fleas that bit both her and the baby made life miserable.

  After a time, Katrina settled into a routine that seemed to ensure that she and the baby would survive, but she became despondent, filled with loneliness and despair. She spent many days fantasizing that Harold would come to rescue her. Once she thought of Tom Callahan, and the idea that he might somehow come to carry her to safety, exploded in her mind and occupied her thoughts for several hours, filling her with a kind of euphoria that faded as time wore on.

  During all this, Teresa’s baby provided the only companionship for Katrina. At first, she resented his crying and the constant care he required, but in time, Katrina developed a growing affection for the infant boy and spent many hours talking to him in Norwegian and English, looking into his dark eyes, playing with him, and enjoying his developing personality. Without consciously deciding to do so, she began calling him “Sebastian,” after his grandfather, Don Sebastian Cardenas—a name Katrina felt Teresa would approve.

  One evening, toward the end of her second week on the beach, her routine having been established, Katrina sat on the seashore, listening to the surf wash onto the sand and watching the sun dip into the ocean. Due to the press of survival, the hopelessness of her plight had only periodically occupied her thoughts during the early days of her isolation. But as the light waned on this quiet evening, a deep, welling ache began way down in her chest, and she found herself suddenly sobbing. As she wept, she cried out in despair to the God in heaven, whom she felt had abandoned her. She had followed His counsel in every instance: she had joined the church, married Harold instead of Tom because Harold had offered the hope of an eternal companionship, and she had come trustingly to Mexico. Now she had lost her baby and her husband and had been left to die in this God-forsaken place! A monstrous sense of the unfairness of it all washed over her, and she succumbed to a feeling of bitterness that threatened to overwhelm her.

  For a space of time, she sat huddled, with her arms pulling her knees up against her chest, rocking back and forth, surrendering to despair and hopelessness. As sh
e rocked, she alternately prayed to God and leveled angry accusations at Him.

  As the moon rose in the night sky, Katrina’s thoughts drifted again to Tom Callahan and the decision she had made to reject his courtship. Abject hopelessness overtook her as this final thought convinced her that nothing of worth remained for her in life. God, or as Tom had put it, fate, had taken all.

  Finally, she stood and walked mindlessly toward the low-rolling surf. Drawn to the sea, she waded out and felt the warm waters rise about her. It seemed so easy. All she needed to do was go a little farther and then relax. In a moment it would be over, and she would be relieved of her suffering.

  The sound of the crying child broke her spell, and she turned, looking back toward the shack and then out to sea again, toward the reflection of the moon on the water. Shaken from her stupor by the sound of human distress, she turned frantically toward shore. Standing in water, now up to her chest, with the swells lifting her feet off the bottom, she panicked. Her clothes hung heavy about her, and the current threatened to draw her farther out to sea. But, then, her fear was replaced by a feeling of defiance.

  Looking up into the cloudless, moonlit sky, she raised her arms, and with her hands balled into fists, cried out, “I have done everything You asked and was obedient to thy servants, Lord. I stand helpless before you, but I will not quit! You will see me through this!” Without waiting for an answer, she thrashed and eventually waded her way toward shore, fighting her way heavily out of the surf and back up the steep beach to the shelter and toward the wailing baby.

  Through the rest of a sleepless night, dozens of thoughts crowding her mind, Katrina felt, rather than saw, the dawn breaking behind the shelter. As she had lain there in the darkness, it had come to her. God had answered her prayers. He had called out to her, and the child, more helpless than she, was the voice He used. As hopeless as her situation appeared, Katrina determined on that morning, barely two weeks since the savage attack on the village, that she would survive and that though God would help her, it would be by strengthening her. No one else would come to save her, she would have to save herself. God’s help, she came to understand, would be forthcoming in the form of her perseverance, her independence, and her fortitude. The dominance of the two men who had controlled her life to this point now gone, she would have to call upon the woman within to emerge.