'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  The coachman’s eyes went wide with this unexpected good fortune.

  “Wait for me,” Sean repeated. “No matter what.”

  “Absolutely, sir,” Dawson fawned. “Here at two. Waiting. You can count on me, sir.”

  “I am,” Sean said, then started off in the direction of the El Dorado.

  There was no missing this most lavish of all saloons: the sidewalk without was crowded with miners and gamblers waiting for room—any kind of room—to become available either at the bar or at any of the tables that offered faro, craps, roulette, rouge et noir, monte, and—Sean’s favorite—draw poker. As Sean approached, a number of the outer circle stepped back and made room for him. He had affected a certain look for his gambling nights, and it paid off at times like this. He wore his hat at a rakish angle in order to show off the braid that hung just past his shoulders; he’d run a dye of black tea and boot polish through his dark blond hair, raking it with his fingers, then braiding it so that it stayed out of his way. He sported a mustache and a scruffy goatee, also rubbed with black, and he kept a Chilean cigar clamped firmly between his teeth. Always the same white shirt, open at the neck, with a dark red silk cloth knotted loosely at the base of his throat. Over this, he sported an embroidered Mexican vest and the best silk-lined jacket money could buy; his trousers were light cotton, tailored to fit perfectly into the tops of his polished riding boots. He knew he cut a baffling figure, one that was hard to pin down—was he part Chinese? Mexican? European and Indian from South America? No one ever guessed there was Irish in the mix until he opened his mouth, and even then, only if he allowed the brogue to show or was more than halfway down the bottle. He enjoyed playing the part of whatever it was he was playing at—he would die in anonymity, that was for certain, for who the hell was Sean Miner?

  He confidently worked his way through the crowd, nodding in the direction of those men who nodded at him, but never looking them directly in the eye, until at last he was in the great room itself. The most impressive thing about the El Dorado, he often thought, was the presence of the formidable guards McCabe had placed shoulder to shoulder around the tables. They stood with their legs slightly apart—the fierce mustachioed Mexicans, their serapes covering pistolas, and the godlike Peruvians whose ponchos served the same purpose—eyes shaded but alert as they watched vials of gold dust, bags of nuggets, coins, and scrip change hands. He watched them now, looking for the slightest change of expression or shift of posture when they saw him move into the room, but they gave away nothing, and so perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps he was not so threatening as he’d thought and no one cared if he took the house for all she had, as long as he did not do it every night. The enormous bar stood all along one side of the room, every inch of it packed with miners, travelers, adventuring men. No women, though, only the daring creature up in the balcony who played her fiddle for the entertainment of the crowd, and even she was guarded by a Mexican who barred the top of the stair. Sean picked his way to the far end of the bar, beneath the balcony, and signaled the barkeep—one of three working the counter tonight—for a whiskey and a pint. The whiskey for courage, the pint for thirst.

  He tossed off the whiskey and was working his way through the pint when a place opened up at a table, “Gentleman Jim” Ransom, a crony of sorts, shoved away the man who tried to take it, then waved Sean over. Obviously Gentleman Jim was tired of the riffraff and wanted a challenge, Sean decided as he obliged.

  “What, are you drinking or gambling tonight, Miner?” the stout man growled.

  “Both, if it’s anything to you,” Sean replied amiably, taking his seat and plunking his bankroll down in front of him.

  All motion at the table stopped, Gentleman Jim’s cigar nearly falling from his lips, as they stared at the wad in front of Sean.

  “You’re outta your mind.” Ransom tapped off the ash of his cigar. “What, did you rob a bank?”

  “Didn’t have to,” Sean said easily. “Not after the few hands we played last week.”

  The other men immediately looked at Ransom, who was known for his quick temper, but when he laughed, they joined in, too, and an air of excitement settled around the table. Only the house dealer appeared nervous; Sean could see the slightest tremor in his hand as he shuffled the cards.

  They played for a couple of hours, weeding out the amateurs—including a young doctor just out from the East whose confident boasts had died on his lips after a single hand—drawing the more skilled players as the game went on. Spectators kept a respectable distance from the table, aware that they were in the presence of high-stakes players, and the guards kept a regular eye on the piles of cash that now sat before each man. McCabe’s manager appeared from his back room every now and then to take a turn around the room, and twice he paused directly behind Sean, watching the play. Sean heard a low hiss escape from his lips when the house lost yet another hand. This dealer wasn’t even particularly good, Sean thought, and was surprised that he’d not been replaced by one more seasoned. They took a break to stretch and relieve themselves, have a drink, and shake the tension out of their shoulders, and then they settled in again. Lighting a fresh cigar, Sean caught a glimpse of McCabe and his cronies entering the saloon at last. The man moved smoothly through the room, then flipped up the bar and went behind to have a word in the barkeep’s ear. The barkeep nodded and motioned to one of the guards. Sean fanned out his cards and pretended to consider his hand, though he kept an eye on McCabe from under the brim of his hat. Carrying a fresh bottle of whiskey, the guard was coming over. When he got to their table, he plunked the bottle down on top of the pile in the middle.

  “Compliments of Senor McCabe,” the guard said smoothly, a false smile on his face. “And then, adios, amigos.”

  “We’re still playing.” Sean reached out and moved the bottle to one side.

  The guard shook his head. “No. You are done, senor. Show your hand, have your drink, then go.”

  Sean shrugged and set down his hand. “Full house, gentlemen.”

  The others groaned and threw down their cards; the dealer paled and narrowed his eyes.

  “Drink?” Sean offered the bottle to the man on his left, then picked up the pile of cash and added it to what he had in front of him.

  “Maybe we’d best wet our whistles somewheres else,” Gentleman Jim suggested, eyeing the guard. “Seems we’ve worn out our welcome here. One of us, at least,” he added pointedly.

  Sean looked past the guard to where McCabe stood, leaning on the back counter behind the bar looking back at him. Sean lifted his glass to the man, then picked up his cash and slowly counted it before rolling up the entire wad and slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket, making sure his pistol was well seen by any man who might be considering the possibility of robbery.

  “Don’t come back.” The guard put a heavy hand on Sean’s shoulder. “Last warning.”

  Sean shook it off. “Don’t remember a first one, amigo, but I get your meaning. If the house is out of money,” he said loudly, “then so be it.” He laughed and shoved past the ring of guards toward the door, feeling McCabe’s eyes on him all the way.

  Once they were outside, Ransom let out a tense whistle. “You’re a strange one, Miner. Baiting the big man himself like that.”

  “I don’t like to be threatened.” Sean looked up and down the street, still full of men even at this hour.

  “Guess not,” Ransom allowed. “Still, McCabe’s no one to mess with. And he hates to lose money.”

  “Shouldn’t be in the gambling business, then.”

  Ransom laughed. “Never seen anyone play cards the way you do, friend, and I’m one of the best.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “What’s your angle? You let me in on this and we’ll clean this place up. Hell, we could own the El Dorado, that’s what you want. Really live it up!”

  Sean shook his head. “Not interested in living,” he said, and then he laughed, feeling the whiskey. “And there’s no angle. Just turned out to be someth
ing I’m good at.”

  “You sure?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Sean started down the sidewalk, then stumbled, drunker than he’d thought. “See you round.”

  “Wait.” Ransom took his arm. “Better let me help you, son, before someone comes along and relieves you of that bankroll.” He steered Sean down around the corner and up a darker street, to the alley that ran behind the El Dorado. “Uh-oh,” he said as a group of men appeared.

  Sean reached for his pistol, but his movements were sluggish, and when he tried to yell, the words came out slurred and nonsensical. Drugged, he realized then from somewhere in the fog of his brain. That last drink was drugged. And I’m about to die. He started laughing.

  “You’re one strange fella,” Ransom pronounced, feeling around in Sean’s jacket for the money. “Remember, I gave you a chance. Been my partner and I’da hid you for a while, then made us rich.” He pulled out the wallet and opened it. “Oh, well. I make money this way, too.”

  The men now stood in a circle around Sean, though through his eyes it was a circle that spun and wavered and simply would not stay in focus.

  “Took my cut,” he heard Gentleman Jim say as if from far away. “Rest is for you boys. McCabe says leave him his legs so he can run out of town.”

  And then the beating began, but oddly, Sean felt little. He heard the meaty thwacks of fists landing on his body, felt the impact of blows against his face, smelled the copper scent of his own blood; he offered little resistance—what was the point? It was a meet and right end, after all this time.

  Then suddenly it was over, the men scattered with a round of gunfire. Strong arms slipped under his own and heaved him up and into a carriage.

  “Two o’clock on the nose, governor. You can count on Randall Dawson.”

  The thick cockney accent would have made Sean smile had any of those muscles worked properly.

  “Always carry a bit of protection, I do. Nothing but ne’er-do-wells this time of night. Rob you blind, did they?”

  Sean mumbled something, tasted fresh blood in his mouth.

  “Never you mind, governor. We’ll get you home. I know you’re good for it. I can tell a gentleman by looking at him. Where to, now, sir? Better hurry before those thugs change their minds.”

  Sean made a great effort to concentrate his energy on moving his mouth. “Chinatown,” he managed. “Stockton Street.” And then he slumped back in the carriage, barely conscious.

  Dawson found the house as directed and was paid generously by Chang-Li, whom Mei Ling had immediately summoned. When the driver had gone, they got Sean up to his room and on the bed. They opened his clothes and examined his wounds, Mei Ling bathing them and applying strong-smelling ointments before bandaging him. Sean was sure his face was battered, and the increasing pain in his sides told him the thugs had broken a few ribs. True to their boss, they hadn’t damaged his legs beyond a few well-placed kicks, though his hip was beginning to throb. Mei Ling’s cool fingers probed the knots and bruises that covered his exposed torso and, embarrassed that she should see him like this—not only beaten but with his crippled arm and leg exposed—he lifted his head. A blast of pain tore through his temples and he moaned, unable to say anything, unable now to even open his eyes. The moaning continued, and then a weeping that mortified him even more when he realized it came from his own lips.

  Chang-Li spoke quietly to Mei Ling in the corner of the room, and then Sean heard the door open and close. When she returned, it was with a long-stemmed pipe, which she handed to Chang-Li. He put the stem in his mouth and lit the contents of the bowl, pulling in until it was well fired, and then he placed the stem between Sean’s cracked and bleeding lips. Gratefully, Sean pulled on the pipe. A little more, and the terrible pain in his body began to ease; more still, and a feeling of well-being washed over him. One eye was swollen shut, but the other he managed to open just enough to see Chang-Li leaving the room. Mei Ling, however, remained, and when he looked at her, despite the cut that opened afresh, she came and stood beside him, smiling.

  “You sleep now,” she said gently. “You not die.”

  The sadness that overwhelmed him at those words must have shown in his eyes, as hers suddenly creased with concern and her smile faltered.

  “Not die,” she repeated as if he’d misunderstood. “Better soon.”

  He closed his eyes so as not to confuse her further and offered the ghost of a smile for her reassurance. How funny, he thought. It was going to be much harder to leave the world than he’d imagined.

  Sixteen

  After a very busy week of restocking the pantry with preserves, Grace and the children were feeling more than a little cooped up, which was why, when the sun came out Thursday noon, she informed Missus Hopkins that she was taking the children down into the city. The doctor was out and would be until late, and Abigail was still asleep; there was plenty of food either stored or warming, and Enid had agreed to make up Miss Wakefield’s tray for the light luncheon she now ate daily.

  While the children got their coats and hats, Grace pulled tonight’s bread from the hot oven, setting two of the three loaves on the rack to cool. The third loaf she wrapped lightly in a piece of cloth; she placed the bundle in her marketing basket, then sent Mary Kate to the cellar for a small pot of honeyed butter, which she put in her pocket, not wanting it too close to the warm bread.

  “Do you remember what to do?” Grace quizzed Enid before going out the door.

  “Pea soup on the stove—give it a stir now and then,” the girl repeated dutifully. “Bread beside. Drippings in the bowl. Part of a ham in the cold box, cheese and apples, molasses cakes for afters.”

  “If your one wakes hungry, give her the broth instead of soup,” Grace directed. “Easier on her stomach.”

  “Yes, ma’am. There’s Mister Litton with the wagon!” Enid nodded toward the open door, hands automatically tidying her hair, smoothing her apron. “Good of him to take you down the hill.”

  “Aye. And we’ll get a ride back up with him, as well, once he’s picked up the rails.” Litton was building a fence around the back of the property now that the hill was becoming more populated. “See you later.”

  Enid followed them out, smiling shyly at George as Grace climbed up next to him and the children scrambled into the back.

  The afternoon air was brisk, and a breezy wind sent flocks of white clouds sailing across the sky. Out on the bay, smoke streamed from the steamers coming into port, and already-anchored ships tossed among the whitecaps. The wagon moved cautiously downhill, mindful of puddles that might be deeper than they appeared and of the layer of slippery mud that lay upon the drying road.

  Mister Litton was silent, as always, and Grace thought she might take advantage of the situation by encouraging a little conversation. Though he ate with them every night, he offered little in the way of give-and-take and rarely met any eye that sought out his. If spoken to, he’d answer with a gruff monosyllable. Only Jack had succeeded in learning anything directly, and that only because he trailed Litton relentlessly as the man made his rounds of an afternoon, badgering him with comment and question alike.

  “You’ve been very patient with our Jack, Mister Litton,” she said now. “I wanted to thank you for letting him tag along while you’re at your work. I hope he doesn’t slow you down too much?”

  “No, ma’am.” Litton kept his eyes on the road.

  “You can always just send him in to me if he gets out of hand.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Because I know he has a lot of questions about things. Likes to know how things work and all. He’s a talker, our one.”

  Mister Litton glanced at her sideways out of the corner of his eye, and Grace had to laugh.

  “Seems to run in the family, you’re thinking.”

  He turned his attention back to the horses. “Gee up,” he encouraged, but he smiled ever so slightly.

  “Do you have family of your own, Mister Litton?” she asked, one hand keeping
her hat in place.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “None still living?”

  “None as own me.”

  Grace looked at him, surprised as much by what he’d said as by the fact he’d offered something personal.

  “But you were a soldier,” she pursued gently. “You fought in the war. Do they not think that honorable?”

  Litton shrugged. “Not the way I come to it.”

  “You are not the man you once were, Mister Litton. ’Tis safe to say you’ve redeemed your character in more ways than just the one.” Grace paused. “Does your mother live?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Aye, that’s too bad. And did you care for her, then?”

  Litton’s hands tightened around the reins. “I turned out poorly. Wasn’t her fault.”

  Grace bit her lip, thinking. “I’ll tell you something, Mister Litton. Something I’m not proud of.” She swallowed hard and lowered her voice. “When I came away from Ireland, Jack was left behind.”

  Litton glanced over sharply, then away.

  “He was newborn, and sickly. My da was to bring him out, but then a letter come saying both had died.”

  Grace looked over her shoulder now, just to see the top of Jack’s head, to know that he was really there.

  “The guilt nearly killed me, but wasn’t there Mary Kate to live for?” She paused, remembering. “And then a miracle—another letter saying he was alive, after all. A friend had taken him in, and ’twas she brought him all the way out to America to me.”

  “Huh.” Litton glanced at her again.

  “The world was set right the day I knew my lost boy was found. Mothers can’t help but love their children, Mister Litton. We think about them all the time.”

  Litton was silent as they rounded the corner at the bottom of the hill and headed toward the waterfront, and she hoped she had not brought up in him a host of painful memories. He was quiet for so long that she thought perhaps she should apologize for speaking out of turn, but then he hunched even further over the reins and cleared his throat.