by Dianne Day
For a welcome distraction I had the care and feeding of my little feline, who had been declared by Feather to be a male of its species. Care was easy: In grooming, Hiram required no assistance, as he was naturally fastidious, with much licking of paws and fur and polishing of ears. Also in other essential habits of hygiene the cat took care of himself, coming in and going out the window as needed. Where he did his business was apparently nobody’s business but his own.
Feeding, however, was a matter in which Hiram proceeded to educate me. Fascinating! I quickly learned that if I did not want my cat to bring disreputable dead creatures through the window and deposit them at my feet like some sort of macabre gift, I had best provide him with food that was to his liking. Otherwise he’d bring one of these gifts which, after having allowed me time for a proper inspection, he would take back and bat around a few times with his paws in a kind of feral pleasure. Then he would settle down to eat it, which was rather disgusting, although better than starving I am sure. What Hiram liked to eat was meat and fish. Period. If I gave him anything else, we were back to the macabre. To drink he liked water, which I kept always in a small bowl on the floor by the dressing table. His food I saved for him from my own meals. Once I tried to beg cream from the kitchen for a special kitty treat, but the cook would not give it to me.
‘‘You shall have all the cream you like when we get back to San Francisco,’’ I said to Hiram, who lay languidly asleep in my lap, not curled up but sprawled in abandon. A cat makes a gentle weight.
Of course there was no question of my leaving him behind—Hiram was a part of my life now. If Michael didn’t like cats, well . . . Michael would just have to reconsider.
The sun had gone down some time before, and the night was so cold that I had closed the window. If Hiram wanted to go out, he had ways of letting me know; in the daytime a meow, at night a cool paw on my nose, in the dark. It was quiet too, in part because it was a weeknight, and in part because Hiram—the town, not the cat—although God-less as far as the Mormons were concerned, was a law-abiding place. During the week most folks went to sleep at sundown, even in winter, when the nights were long.
I generally stayed up for a few hours, though. I hadn’t lost my city habits, even if I’d become so accustomed to reading by lantern light that I no longer paid attention to a certain amount of flickering. They used lamps or lanterns exclusively in this place.
The book I’d been reading no longer held my interest, and so I put it aside and wrote a few notes to myself. It was time I began a list of things to do upon my return to San Francisco. Surely it would not be defying Fate to do so at this point? Surely I was merely being prudent?
Number one on my list: Find an intermediary to deal with Pratt matters so that I could do certain things without revealing my whereabouts. Not that I really thought there was any danger of Melancthon Pratt coming after me, but better to be safe than sorry. An officer of my bank would be an ideal intermediary. First, I would instruct him to open an account in Provo in Norma Pratt’s name and place on deposit the money I had promised her. Then I wanted to find a way to get a letter to Selene. I wanted her to know she could write to me if she wished, and I would reply, provided we could be sure that Father would not intercept either her letters or mine.
I frowned, wondering how this might be accomplished. The first letter should go in a package or pouch, as in it I would want to enclose the five-dollar gold piece Selene had insisted on giving me. I had not spent it; I thought perhaps I might even have chosen to die rather than spend it, her kindness had meant that much to me. Perhaps I might keep this gold piece as a memento, replacing it with another of even larger denomination?
But no . . . because Selene had won this gold piece in a contest. She had kept it not for its monetary value but because it was her prize.
‘‘She shall have back her prize,’’ I muttered, making note of it, although I was hardly likely to forget. Then I wrote: Selene—college? That was my dream, that I might somehow be allowed to send this bright and talented young woman to college, where she would see and learn about a wider world than she had available in the whole state of Utah. Would she want that as much as I wanted it for her?
I leaned back against the bed pillows and mused upon this question, to which I had no answer. In all likelihood I never would, because for the life of me I couldn’t think of a way to contact Selene without Melancthon Pratt’s knowledge. Eventually the musing over this problem meandered into a reverie, in which at last I allowed all sorts of feelings about and memories of the Pratt wives to wash over me; and from that I drifted into a restless, fitful sleep.
I did not sleep well, not even after I had roused myself to don my nightgown, get under the covers, and blow out the lamp. Countless times I opened my eyes to darkness and lay wishing for morning to come. Thoughts of Michael plagued me, to the point where I was so unable to get him out of my mind that when I did sleep, I dreamed of him. Not pleasant dreams either —I dreamed that he was in some kind of trouble, some sort of danger.
Finally, coming out of one of these bad dreams I opened my eyes to the gray light that precedes sunrise. Such a foreboding was upon me that I felt physically ill, weak, and nauseous.
I had just gathered together the energy to say aloud, ‘‘Nonsense!’’ when I heard a commotion outside my room. My heart rose into my throat as I recognized the source of the noise: Someone was knocking, hard, on the hotel’s front door, which had been closed and locked for the night.
I was in a flannel nightgown and had no robe. Yet I did not hesitate, nor was there any question of taking time to get dressed. I grabbed my crutches, flung open my own door, and crossed the hotel lobby as fast as I could possibly move.
21
THE DOOR of the Hiram Hotel had a pane of glass in it, with a shade that was lowered when the hotel was locked for the night. In spite of—or perhaps because of—the fierce pounding going on, I delayed long enough to raise the shade so that I might see who was on the other side before opening the door.
It was Meiling.
I could not undo the lock fast enough.
Sandra Hunter had been awakened by the noise—as I flung open the door I heard her say something from the stairway, but I did not, could not, reply. I couldn’t do anything, not speak or move or even think. I could only fill my eyes with the sight of my dear old friend, who flew through the doorway and threw her arms around me in an effusive fashion that was most uncharacteristic, not only of all Chinese women but also of the Meiling I knew so well. My crutches got in the way, but somehow we managed a tangle of hugging and greeting, until finally I laughed to see tears spilling from Meiling’s eyes and to feel my own cheeks wet.
I had never before experienced this quality peculiar to us humans, that we sometimes cry when we are happiest of all.
Gradually I became aware that Sandra was standing nearby. I disentangled myself, clamped a crutch under an armpit, and wiped my wet face with the hand thus freed as Meiling also stepped back.
Nodding toward Sandra I said, ‘‘Sandra Hunter, meet Meiling Li. And vice versa.’’
Meiling found her dignity, made her small bow, and said, ‘‘I am pleased to meet new friend of my old friend Fremont Jones.’’
With that initial rush of happiness now subsiding, another emotion came swiftly to take its place. The new and far less welcome feeling, a sick and empty dread, established a residence in the pit of my stomach.
I swallowed hard and asked the key question: ‘‘Meiling, where is Michael?’’
Sandra, Bright Feather, Meiling, and I were gathered around the warmth of the small woodstove in the corner of my room. Meiling had first held us spellbound with her tale: How at Michael’s warning she had untied one of the horses from the back of the wagon and then ridden it bareback, clinging to that frightened horse for she did not know how many miles as they galloped in total darkness. At last she’d gained control of the animal, and had then hidden in a copse of trees for the rest of the night. As s
oon as the sky grew light enough to see she set out again, and fortunately it was not long before she found the track that was the road to Hiram.
Meiling had done what she was sure Michael would have wanted: She’d found and warned me. Now what next? According to Feather, we were having a council of war.
There was some disagreement as to the battle plan. Meiling did not want to involve anyone other than the two of us, herself and me. The objective was, of course, to free Michael and at the same time to capture ‘‘the big man,’’ as Meiling called him. Her attempt to get her Mandarin-speaking tongue around the name Braxton Furnival would have been amusing in other circumstances.
I let the other three carry on their debate without me for a few moments while I thought about Braxton. Was it really he who had blown up the train, and done all the other things Meiling said Michael believed he’d done? The physical description she gave did sound like Braxton. She said Michael thought he was behind the harassment that the two railroad lines, the Southern Pacific, and Union Pacific, had hired J&K to investigate. Certainly Braxton had good reason to feel vindictive toward the owners of the Southern Pacific, but right now it was hard for me to believe he could hate me enough to blow up an entire train just because Michael and I were on it.
I was not going to be satisfied until I could see him with my own eyes, and hear with my own ears whatever he had to say for himself. Not to mention that the foremost course of action must be to get Michael away from this big man, whether the latter proved to be Braxton Furnival or someone else.
I had followed the course of the others’ discussion even while thinking my own thoughts, and now I interrupted Sandra in the midst of a sentence.
She was saying, ‘‘This whole town would come out in a heartbeat—’’
‘‘Meiling is right,’’ I said.
Their three faces turned to me, and I was struck by what disparate examples of female beauty we had here. Sandra, who was equally comfortable in any article of clothing—or possibly without any at all, though I’d never had reason to test this out personally—was still in her robe and gown. Not even the heat of the woodstove could bring color to her pale skin, and her sharp but classic features were most definitely those of a ‘‘white woman.’’ Bright Feather, who did not have red skin even though Indians were generally assumed to, nevertheless had a becoming pink flush on her dusky high cheekbones. Meiling, though dressed like a Chinese workman in a cotton tunic and trousers, quilted for warmth, with her long hair in a single braid down her back, was nevertheless the most exotically beautiful woman I’d ever known.
That striking impression took only an instant to register. They were all looking at me expectantly and I plunged ahead, sure now what I wanted to do. ‘‘Meiling is right because if this big man is indeed Braxton Furnival, then what he really most wants is me. He has good reason to hate me. I knew him well about a year ago. Let’s just say he, well, he took a fancy to me. I used his interest to trick and humiliate him because I found out he was . . . dishonest.’’ That was putting it mildly, but I did not even like to remember all the things I had found out about Braxton, much less to say them aloud.
I went on: ‘‘He has Michael for a hostage. That means our best chance of success will involve deception, and it is much easier to pull off a ruse when there are only a couple of people involved. The whole town, as grateful as I would be for so much help, could only succeed by overcoming him with force. In such a process, Michael might be killed.’’
Meiling nodded. ‘‘It is so.’’
Sandra looked doubtful, but Bright Feather said, ‘‘When you put it like that, I agree. Spell out your plan. We’ll do what we can.’’
Half an hour later, just as the sun broke over the mountaintops, Meiling and I rode side by side out of Hiram, back the way she’d come. She rode her black horse, this time with a saddle borrowed from Feather. I drove a buggy that belonged to one of Sandra’s regulars, since unfortunately my not-yet-entirely-healed legs would not allow me to ride, but I could sit easily enough.
We did not talk much, though I could not resist commenting that I’d been unaware Chinese women who’d grown up in San Francisco knew how to ride horses. Meiling replied, modestly, that such little skill as she possessed on horseback had been acquired during her time as a student at Stanford.
Our plan rested on an assumption that the big man and Michael would be on their way to Hiram, and that in her headlong flight last night, the horse had carried Meiling far enough down the road that she’d had a considerable head start. Still, we did not think we would have to ride far up the road before we came upon the men.
As indeed we did not. At first sight of horses in the distance, I went ahead more rapidly, while Meiling hung back and left the road. If these travelers should prove not to be the ones we sought, she would rejoin me.
It was critically important to our plan that I appear to be alone. Bright Feather and her husband Tom were to have left town ten minutes behind me and Meiling. That was some comfort, but of course a lot can happen in ten minutes.
I do not like guns, but I do know how to shoot and would not go into a situation like this unarmed. I had a shotgun on the seat beside me, borrowed from Tom, and I was prepared to use it. Closer and closer the two men on horseback approached. My heart was in my throat as I strained my eyes, seeking to identify Michael’s contours, the so-familiar set of his head upon his neck. Perhaps these two men were not the two I sought, for where was the wagon Meiling had mentioned?
They must have left the wagon behind, for in another minute I had recognized Michael. The bulk of the man beside him could most certainly be Furnival. I took up the shotgun in my right hand, held the reins in my left, said a few reassuring words to the sturdy horse that pulled the buggy, and went on.
When we were about ten yards apart, I pulled back on the reins and said ‘‘Whoa!’’ And when the buggy came to a complete standstill, I placed the reins between my knees and raised the shotgun with both hands. I took aim.
‘‘Stop where you are!’’ I called out in a loud voice.
They didn’t stop. The big man had the reins of the second horse, and the man astride that second horse was my Michael, no longer a shadow of a doubt about that—certainly not after an involuntary ‘‘Fremont!’’ escaped his throat.
‘‘Stop or I’ll shoot!’’ I said.
They didn’t, and I did. It is not the easiest thing in the world to aim an unfamiliar shotgun from a seated position, but in a crisis I am always surprised what one can do. My shot went wide, but that was what I had intended. I had made my point.
‘‘I am coming closer,’’ I said, and jacked another round into the chamber.
When I was within ten feet I was able to identify Braxton Furnival with certainty, although he had a wild look about him.
‘‘Fremont Jones,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s true, you are alive. Where’s the Chinese gal?’’
‘‘Yes, I’m alive. Meiling is at the hotel in Hiram. She fell off her horse and injured herself badly, but she came on nevertheless to tell me what had happened.’’
I cut my eyes quickly to Michael—I did not dare look away from Furnival for long, which I was sure Michael understood, even though he was trying to send me some message with his own eyes.
‘‘Too bad.’’ There was a trace of the old Braxton in the gaze he swept over me from head to foot. He’d been a connoisseur of women, and charming enough in a rather rough way. But either I looked too haggard now to be any longer appealing, or he just simply hated me, because the light of appreciation in his sweeping gaze soon turned to contempt. He said, ‘‘Just tell me one thing before I shoot you. Were you in your compartment when the train blew up?’’
I blinked. For a moment my mind would not decipher his question. But then I saw it as an opportunity, and my brain began to function, this time at high speed. ‘‘No, I was not. I had been in the dining car and had not yet reached my compartment. I do not, actually, remember much about it yet. I had q
uite a blow on the head. Was that your doing? You dynamited the train?’’
‘‘He did it, all right,’’ Michael said. ‘‘Last night he told me everything. He’s a braggart, aren’t you, Furnival?’’
‘‘Quiet, Kossoff. Now that I have her, you’re no longer of any use to me. Make trouble, I’ll just shoot you dead right here and now. Be a good fellow and maybe I’ll give the two of you a little time together before I kill you both.’’
‘‘You seem to forget,’’ I said, ‘‘that I am armed. I will most certainly interfere with your plans. Answer the question, Braxton.’’
‘‘I dynamited that train twice over. Once, with a timing mechanism on the trestle. Again with sticks of dynamite on a long fuse laid right outside your compartment. I didn’t do the thing inside the train myself, of course, I paid somebody to do it. I wasn’t on the train when it went. I’m not that stupid. That extra step with the dynamite in the train car was one I took after I recognized you and Kossoff getting on that particular train. I couldn’t believe my luck. But that train was doomed anyway, even if you hadn’t been on it.’’
‘‘Just out of curiosity,’’ I said, lowering the shotgun slightly as if dropping my guard, ‘‘was it you behind all those little episodes of railroad harassment that Michael and I were hired to investigate?’’
‘‘Of course it was me.’’ Furnival preened, there was no other word for it, even though he was scarcely at the moment the peacock he used to be. More like a scraggly turkey.
He bragged for a bit. Every minute he talked was another minute for Meiling to get in place and make her move.
I raised the shotgun again and took aim. I had a bad moment when the horse decided we’d been sitting there long enough, as I was holding the reins between my knees and of course had no strength whatever in my legs. But the horse quieted, I didn’t lose aim, and I said, ‘‘All right, that’s enough. You’re not really interested in Michael, Braxton. You know that, and I know it. Let him go, then toss away your gun, and I’ll do the same. I’ll come with you. My life for his.’’