My Father's World

by Michael Phillips

  “Ranchers like Uncle Nick?” I said.

  “I suppose so,” replied the Captain vaguely.

  For such a little town, a lot of people were milling around the streets. It was Saturday, the Captain reminded me—the day everyone comes to town. As we pulled the wagon up to a stop in front of one of the biggest of the buildings, the town’s only General Store, Captain Dixon told us to stay close to him.

  We trailed inside behind him like a brood of little ducklings following their mama. For the first time in months, I felt at home. The store was filled almost to bursting with everything imaginable, and reminded me of the Mercantile in Bridgeville, the little town near our farm in New York. The smells of leather, licorice, pickles, feed, peppermint, and burlap all mingled together in a wonderful, homey way. But I wish I hadn’t picked up a bar of lemon verbena soap. The strong aroma immediately brought tears to my eyes; Ma used to use it all the time, and it reminded me so much of her. I had to fight back tears the rest of the day because the smell lingered on my hands.

  It was easy to guess the proprietor by his appearance, dressed in a white shirt and string tie, with a leather visor stuck on his forehead over dark, brilliantined hair. I suppose the proprietors of stores like these all looked the same. At least he was dressed just like kind old Mr. Johnson back in Bridgeville. This gentleman stood behind a coarse wooden counter, absorbed in sorting through a stack of important-looking papers. He stopped when the door closed behind Becky, looked up, and his thick eyebrows raised right up to his visor as he watched us approach. He had the biggest, bushiest eyebrows I’d ever seen. He said nothing, but his eyes shone with both question and surprise as Captain Dixon walked up to the counter with his little batch of silent ducklings in tow. Maybe folks weren’t used to children here in Miracle. I didn’t know what to expect. But when he opened his mouth, his voice was friendly.

  “Afternoon. Can I help you folks?”

  “We’re looking for someone,” said Captain Dixon.

  “I see—” His voice trailed off as his eye followed Tad, who had wiggled his hand from mine and was going for a bright red ball he’d spied.

  “Perhaps your children would like a sweet treat?” the storekeeper continued, stopping Tad, as I supposed he intended, in his tracks.

  “Uh—they ain’t my kids,” replied Captain Dixon. “I’m just looking after them until I can get them to their kin.”

  “And might that be who you’re looking for?” asked the storekeeper as he began passing around a glass jar of hard candy.

  I was kept busy trying to listen with one ear and contain the squeals of delight from the others at the same time.

  “That’s right,” said the captain. “I’m Jim Dixon, and I’m looking for a Nick Matthews.”

  The man stopped suddenly, the jar just out of Tad’s reach. All at once he seemed oblivious to us kids, and didn’t even notice Tad’s heroic attempts to wrap his dirty little fingers around a piece of candy. Finally I took out a piece and gave it to Tad. But the storekeeper continued to stare at Captain Dixon.

  “That so?” he finally said in a questioning voice. “The young’uns’ father?”

  “Their uncle.”

  “You certain of that?”

  “Sure as I can be, never havin’ met the man. But I knew their ma.”

  “Hmmm—”

  “You know him then, Mister?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Know where we can find him?”

  “Not exactly,” replied the storekeeper. “Though he’s got a claim hereabouts, but I never—”

  “I know who Nick is!” chimed in a voice from the back of the store where a display of saddles was piled.

  We all glanced around eagerly in the direction of the new voice. A man came toward us slowly, older and more weathered than anyone I’d ever seen, even more ’n my old Grandpa Belle. His face was covered with a matted gray beard which continued up the sides of his cheeks, around his ears, and up over the top of his head—one big clump of hair, with only his two eyes and a red nose peeking out from it. Toward the back of his head he wore a battered old slouch hat, but his hair seemed too unruly to be contained and spread out in all directions from underneath it. His clothes Ma would have long since tossed out as rags, and around his neck was tied what looked to be a blue bandanna, though it was so covered with grime you could hardly tell the blue from the brownish-gray of his beard. As he approached, two half-sets of teeth made their appearance out of the mass which covered his face—neither the most complete nor the whitest teeth I had ever laid eyes on, but at least the smile surrounding them seemed friendly.

  “What’s that you say, Alkali?” said the storekeeper.

  “Ya heard me well enough,” answered the old prospector, his grin widening.

  “This here’s Alkali Jones,” said the storekeeper by way of introduction. “Knows everything and everyone in Miracle, and been here longer than all of us put together, I don’t doubt.”

  “Hee, hee! I reckon yer right ’bout that,” said Jones.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Captain Dixon. The two men shook hands. Mr. Jones’ hands were as brown and tough as an Indian’s.

  “What can you tell me about Matthews?” asked the captain.

  “Mayhap the young’uns oughta step outside,” said Alkali Jones. I thought I detected a slight wink in the Captain’s direction as he spoke, but I could tell it wasn’t meant for me. “These all be Nick’s kin?” he squeaked. “Hee, hee!” His high-pitched voice sounded like gravel scraping over glass.

  “That’s right, they’re his kin. So I figure what you’ve got to say you can say to us all.”

  We moved a few steps away, but were too curious to take the old miner’s suggestion and go outside.

  “Have it yer way, stranger. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” He paused, and then, still half-trying to keep his words from us, said in a low voice, “He’s done skipped.”

  “Skipped? What do you mean?” asked Captain Dixon.

  “Skipped town, that’s what! What else could I mean? Hee, hee!”

  “Why?”

  “The sheriff’s after him, that’s why! Ya must be a tinhorn, stranger—why else would a man like Nick pull up and leave his claim?”

  “How long ago?”

  “I dunno. Last week some time, weren’t it, Bosely?” The storekeeper half nodded, half shrugged.

  “What did he do?”

  “Some say he shot a man, Mister,” said the storekeeper seriously. “Others say he was framed.”

  “Whichever it be, he ain’t been seen in Miracle since,” added Mr. Jones.

  “Well, isn’t there anybody in town who can tell me anything about it, or where he might possibly be?” asked the captain.

  “The sheriff sure doesn’t know,” said the storekeeper. “I heard he’s been clear down to Placerville looking for him.”

  “Them that knows ain’t sayin’, I can tell ya that! Hee, hee!”

  “And who might that be, Mr. Jones?”

  “Friends o’ his.”

  “Where might I find these friends?”

  “Likely over t’ the Gold Nugget. Ya passed it on the way in t’ town.”

  “I see,” said the captain thoughtfully. “Well then, I’ll just leave the kids here while I go have a talk with these gentlemen.”

  “I wouldn’t be doin’ that!” said Mr. Jones, wiping his grimy shirtsleeve across his nose. “Ya don’t want t’ be disturbin’ them now . . . no, siree!”

  “These kids here have been on the trail for months,” exclaimed Captain Dixon. “Their poor ma took sick and died when we were almost here, and now they’re orphans except for this Matthews fellow. So whatever’s going on ain’t more important than this!”

  I wanted to cheer for the captain, standing up for us like he did, but I just stood there and kept quiet.

  “That’s up t’ you, of course,” said Mr. Jones. “All’s I knows is there’s been a mighty se-erious game o’ poke
r since last night. An’ ’bout two hours ago Nick’s partner put their claim on the table, an’ then lost it square.”

  “Don’t matter. I’m gonna see him,” insisted Captain Dixon.

  “Have it yer own way, stranger. I’m jist tellin’ ya he said he’d shoot anyone who interrupted the game afore he’d had a fair chance o’ winnin’ back the land.”

  “Drum’s no hothead,” put in the shopkeeper. “I don’t think he would—” but he was cut off in mid-sentence.

  “Ya know as well as I do, Bosely, that this fracas with Nick’s got him a mite riled.”

  “How much longer do you suppose the game’ll last?” asked Captain Dixon.

  “No tellin’.”

  Captain Dixon sighed, thought for a minute, then bustled us kids outside. He went back into the store, I guessed to ask directions, then took us to a boarding house. This one was run by an old Italian woman named Mrs. Gianni. She took us to her kitchen and set about fixing us something to eat. The Captain told us to wait there while he went to see what he could find out.

  Chapter 5

  In Front of the Gold Nugget

  We sat in Mrs. Gianini’s boarding house around a rough table covered with a red-checkered cloth. Slabs of apple pie were on the table in front of us. It was nearly the best pie I ever tasted—almost as good as Ma’s. But I couldn’t eat much. Zack ate his and finally began to work on mine.

  We’d been waiting so long that a little bit more oughtn’t have mattered much. But after an hour I could hardly stand it any more. I began to wonder if that nice Captain Dixon hadn’t just given up and gone back to Sacramento.

  Then I remembered that old miner’s words. Could someone have shot the captain? Surely Ma’s brother couldn’t have friends like that. I told myself those were just wild tales like the ones we heard about Kit Carson and Davy Crockett.

  Finally the waiting became too much to bear. The other kids had finished their pie, Tad was getting cranky, and Becky was wiggling around. I didn’t want to wait another minute.

  “Look here,” I said, trying to sound firm like Ma, “I’m going to find out what’s going on.”

  “But Captain Dixon said to stay put,” said Emily in her dainty way.

  “Well, supposing something’s happened to him?”

  Zack’s head shot up with a worried look as he caught the meaning in my words.

  “I’m goin’,” I said firmly, rising up off the chair.

  “Well if you go, we all go,” put in Zack. “We gotta all stick together.”

  I didn’t argue. I didn’t feel quite so brave as my words sounded, and I was glad for the company, even if it was just a passel of young’uns.

  Mrs. Gianini told us to stay where we were, but we all bounded out of her place, leaving her with her hands in the air. The little ones held each others’ hands and followed on mine and Zack’s heels as if we were the ma and pa of the bunch. But inside my stomach was a knot. I was worried and scared, and I missed Ma terribly.

  The sun was setting as we marched down the street, and the shadows made the town look all the more threatening. I noticed the brawling noise now, too. Laughter and shouts and catcalls poured out from the saloons. I could hear several gruff men’s voices trying their best at “Oh, Susanna,” but they sounded off-key, even to my tin ear. They were probably drunk. An even more off-key piano was being played along with them. It might have been comical if I hadn’t been so anxious inside.

  We found the Gold Nugget Saloon. It was noisy, with lots of men hanging around outside. I didn’t relish the thought of walking up to the place, much less going inside, but I didn’t know what else to do.

  There was a place like the Gold Nugget in Bridgeville, but Ma didn’t let us go near it. “Decent folk don’t go into drinkin’ houses,” Ma had said. What little I knew about California told me that a drinking house way out here must be even worse than the ones in the East. I told myself that we had a mighty good reason to be there, but it didn’t make it any easier to step up onto the wooden steps and go inside. I looked at my brothers and sisters, but they just looked back at me with big, wide eyes. They were looking to me to decide what we ought to do. My stomach was still all knotted up. Surely one of those rough-looking men standing around the place was going to start making fun of us. But finally I took in a breath, turned around, and started toward the swinging doors.

  All of a sudden a female voice spoke up behind us. “Do you children need some help?”

  I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around. I was more than a little relieved to be stopped from going inside that place, even if just for a minute.

  There stood a woman, about Ma’s age, or maybe a few years younger. She was tall and trim, but sturdily built. Even dressed as she was in a blue calico and matching bonnet, I could tell she wasn’t afraid of work. She was pretty, but in a rough, earthy sort of way, and her tanned skin looked as if she spent a lot of time out in the sun.

  “My name is Almeda Parrish,” she went on to say to our blank faces. “I run the Parrish Mine and Freight Company. My office is across the way and I happened to notice you children. Do your mother and father know where you are?”

  “Our ma and pa are dead, ma’am,” I answered, trying to sound respectful.

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” And I truly thought she was. “But this is hardly the kind of place for children. Do you want someone inside?”

  “Well, Ma’am,” I answered, “we just came from New York, and Captain Dixon, that’s our wagon boss, he went to find out about our Uncle Nick. But he left over an hour ago, and we got kind of worried waiting on him. We’ve been—”

  Without warning, tears welled up in my eyes, and I bit my lip to keep them back. I felt like such a baby.

  “And this—Captain Dixon? You say he’s your wagon boss?”

  “He brung us all the way from the East, Ma’am,” put in Zack, coming to my rescue.

  Mrs. Parrish didn’t seem to mind a girl crying. She stepped right up to me and put her arm around me. Then she said, “There, there, child. Don’t you worry, we’ll get all this straightened around.”

  When I had gotten all my tears out, she went on to say in a thoughtful tone, “Nick . . . ? Nick who?”

  “Nick Matthews,” spoke up Zack again.

  She pursed her lips and nodded slightly, but said nothing. I didn’t like the look that came over everyone’s faces around here when Uncle Nick’s name came up.

  At that moment, a man walked out of the saloon doors.

  “Sir,” said Mrs. Parrish with authority in her voice. The man stopped and paid attention. “There is a man by the name of Dixon, a Captain Dixon, in this establishment,” she said. “Would you go back inside and tell him to come out immediately? There are some children here very anxious to see him.”

  “That might not be sich a good idee right at the moment, Ma’am,” he returned. “Ya see, the game’s downright tense, an’ any disturbance—”

  “Well!” exclaimed Mrs. Parrish, “Of all the nerve! To think a game of poker is more important than this. I’ll just have to go in after him myself!”

  She hitched up her calico dress with both hands, and marched right inside as if she were Daniel walking into the lion’s den. I peered over the top of the two swinging doors and could tell that the men inside were just as surprised as me at seeing a fine, well-bred lady suddenly intrude upon their private world. There were other women inside, but they were dressed a whole lot differently than Mrs. Parrish.

  “Why, Mrs. Parrish, this is indeed an honor—” the man standing behind the bar began to say. But she paid no attention and marched right on past him.

  She disappeared into another room at the back of the saloon. I could hear voices from inside through the open door, but I couldn’t make out what anyone was saying. From the loud female voice it was plain that Mrs. Parrish was giving the men gathered there a piece of her mind.

  In about two minutes Mrs. Parrish came out again, followed almost immediately by Captain Di
xon. Several others straggled along behind them. Some of the men looked pretty mean and all wore guns on their hips.

  “I’m sorry, kids,” said Captain Dixon walking right up to us. “I’m afraid I wasn’t too successful at finding out much about your uncle. None of the men were too talkative while their game was going on. About all I know for sure is what we heard before—that he’s not here.”

  Just then, another man walked through the swinging doors, and the eyes of several of the onlookers swung around and glared at him. Unconsciously, I backed up several steps along the wooden sidewalk, and the younger kids clung close to me. Mrs. Parrish eyed the man intently, while all the other men who had wandered out of the saloon crowded around by the doors, some with grins on their faces, chuckling among themselves, looking ready for a good show.

  The fellow was awfully tall. He had dark circles under his red eyes, and wore a full beard. A big hat was pulled down clear to his ears. I’d have guessed him to be thirty-eight or forty years old, but it was hard to tell. He’d probably been at the card table all night, like the man at the store said. His shoulders were broad; he could have hoisted both Becky and Tad up on them and hardly felt it. He wasn’t unpleasant looking, but kind of fearsome all the same. He was dressed shabbily, his dusty old trousers held up with faded suspenders over a patched flannel shirt.

  “Well, Mr. Drum,” said Mrs. Parrish in a stern voice, “as you can see, the situation is as serious as I tried to tell you inside. Now, are you going to tell us where we can find Mr. Matthews, or not?”

  “You ain’t told me nothin’ yet.” He glanced at us kids with deep creases forming between his thick brown eyebrows. “What’s this all about?”

  “As I tried to tell you, these children are looking for your partner.”