by Tim Champlin
“Ah surely do.” He pulled a tattered leather coin purse from his pocket, dug out a folded document, and handed it to Zane. “Ah can’t read, but ah never goes anywhere without dis.”
Zane unfolded the legal size, water-stained paper that was beginning to crack in the creases due to constant wear. It had a Missouri state seal embossed at the top and was partly printed, partly handwritten; it was full of legal language, but testified to the fact that the bearer, Jim Watson (the surname of his last owner), had been duly granted his freedom by the last will and testament of Miss Emily Watson, etc., etc. It gave Jim’s approximate age as thirty, a general physical description, and then a more specific identifying mark of a scar on his left shoulder. The document was signed by Miss Watson, dated fourteen months previously, and bore the signatures of two witnesses.
Zane refolded the document and handed it back. “Jim, that looks all legal and proper. Hang onto it in case anyone has a need to see it.”
“De judge say dey be a copy o’ dis in de cotehouse, too, ’case dis one be lost,” Jim said.
“Good. But no slave hunter will bother to check these records at the courthouse.” He thought for a moment, looking toward the buildings of the nearby town. “Tell you what, Jim, I think it might be a better idea if Becky and I go into town and you stay here with the boat. I don’t want anyone giving us problems when they see a black man and a blond girl and a boy who’s part Chinese coming into town. Might attract some unneeded attention. Tell me where I’m likely to find water. I’ll bring back what we need. I have plenty o’ money.”
“Don’t let nobody see dat money belt, Zane.”
“I won’t. I’ll take out a few coins and put them in my pocket.”
Jim proceeded to tell Zane and Becky there was likely water at a public pump near the center of town somewhere. Or they could ask someone. Three large canteens could be bought at a general store or hardware.
Zane said he’d bring Jim some tobacco and some gunpowder and .31 caliber balls for his pistol.
“Don’t forget de caps fo it,” Jim said. “Dis pistol ain’t no good wifout dem.”
“Will they sell ammunition to a kid?” Zane asked, thinking about the restrictions on minors where he’d come from.
“Long’s you gots de money, dey don’t care.”
“We’ll be back as soon as we can.”
Zane and Becky set off walking the mile to St. Charles. She was still looking very bedraggled, and Zane suggested they stop somewhere so she could buy herself some clothes that looked better than the dirty and torn white frilly dress.
“We’ll find a store and you can do some shopping.”
“I’ve been in these clothes for several days and I feel grimy and dirty. Wish there was someplace I could take a bath.”
“Well, until that happens, at least some new clothes might make you feel better.”
She smiled at him, and Zane realized for the first time that she was a very pretty girl.
“Are there any part-Chinese people around here?” Zane asked.
Becky shook her head. “None that I’ve ever seen.”
“The way people think of blacks and Indians and half breeds around here, maybe I should act like your servant if someone should stop us,” he said. In this unenlightened society, he wasn’t about to assert his rights, if challenged. He was all about keeping a low profile. “You pretend be the little rich girl who has a half-Chinese servant your daddy sent along to help you carry your packages.”
So, with this cover story, they bought three half-gallon size canteens and were directed to the town pump two blocks from the river. Here they slaked their thirst and filled the canteens. Zane slung them on his shoulder while Becky led him to a store where she could buy some clothing. It was a large general dry goods mercantile, not nearly as large as the modern discount stores Zane was used to, but crammed with all manner of merchandise, from clothing to weapons to tools, much of it hanging from the ceiling to make maximum use of space. He waited nearby, looking at the variety of goods, while she picked out a gray, mid-calf, divided riding skirt and two white cotton shirtwaists. Zane looked the other way while she and the female sales clerk selected appropriate underwear. Then Becky tried on a pair of sandals, made of strips of soft, woven leather. She went into a back room to change into her new outfit.
“You look nice and fresh,” he remarked when she came out and twirled around to show off for his approval.
“You’ll want these.” The middle-aged woman handed Zane the bundle of Becky’s old clothes tied up with cord. He started to refuse, but then decided instead of throwing them away, manufactured cloth in this time and place might be useful, or worth something. If the clothes were beyond washing and mending, they could be cut up for rags if nothing else.
The general merchandise store held an amazing variety of items, and, for the benefit of the clerk, Zane said to Becky, “Didn’t your daddy say to buy a poncho or two as well?”
“Oh, that’s right,” Becky said, picking up on his cue. “And he wanted three blankets, too.”
The sales clerk looked over her reading glasses at them. “Are you folks heading upriver for the gold rush, too?”
“Oh, yes. My father is bustin’ his seams to reach California,” Becky said. “My mother is not eager to go. She’s heard tales about wild Indians and such out on the plains.”
“We have lots of folks in here stocking up for the long trip,” the clerk said.
“Are there many boats heading for St. Joe?” Zane asked.
“The wharf is constantly jammed with them,” the saleslady said. “And more coming up from St. Louis all the time. I think our goods here are a little cheaper than in the city, so a lot of the Argonauts are stocking up here before they leave.”
“How long does it normally take to reach St. Joseph?” Zane asked.
“Oh, roughly a week, they tell me. It mostly depends on how much the weather or sandbars delay them.”
“Sandbars?”
“Of course. Boats have to grasshopper over them all the time. But this time of year, there’s still a good bit of water in the Missouri—spring runoff from the Rocky Mountains, you know. But, all and all, the muddy Missouri is still the river the old-timers say is too thick to drink and too thin to plow.” She smiled at the old joke as if she’d originated it.
While Becky wandered off to look at other things, Zane continued his conversation with the saleslady. The more he could find out in casual conversation, the better he could function in this new environment. “Is St. Joseph the jumping-off point for the wagon trains heading west?”
“That and Independence, a bit south of there,” she replied, pointing to a wall map behind her. “My lands, I never saw so many folks lustin’ after all those riches. Some who can’t sell their businesses, up and slap a ‘Closed’ sign on them and leave anyway. Do you think there’s really so much gold there that folks is picking up nuggets off the ground, like they say?”
“I don’t reckon that’s the case,” Zane grinned. He stepped closer to the wall map and studied it. He was used to seeing maps of the United States with familiar state lines and settled boundaries. But this was entirely different. A large, irregular section of the middle of the country extended west and north from Missouri. In block letters it was marked, INDIAN TERRITORY. So that’s what the boys were talking about. It appeared to cover much of what became Nebraska, and part of Kansas, Oklahoma, and South Dakota.
He turned away and noticed Becky gesturing at something on the far side of the room where the guns and harnesses were racked.
He wandered toward her and saw her pointing at tins of gunpowder and lead balls on display with Colt revolvers. Zane purchased a small leather pouch of .31 balls and several circular boxes of copper caps and a three-pound tin of gunpowder, thinking as he did so that his mother’s ancestors had invented gunpowder centuries before. They very likely hadn’t done mankind any great favors by their discovery. But, if the Chinese hadn’t, someone else would have.
Zane wished he could find another pair of sneakers, but knew there was no such thing here and now. His canvas and rubber shoes had been almost constantly wet, and the skin of his feet was white and wrinkled as a result. So he bought himself a pair of leather shoes that seemed to fit, but didn’t feel near as good as his padded tennis shoes. A pair of woolen socks would be enough padding.
Jim apparently had no need of shoes in summer. He’d walked barefoot for so long, the bottoms of his feet were mostly horny calluses, apparently as thick as the soles of Indian moccasins, Zane thought.
He glanced around the store, trying to think of what else they might need, if they were to camp out, away from the prying eyes of people for a few days.
Zane and Becky returned to the yawl near suppertime loaded down with sacks of supplies. They’d decided to buy bacon and dried beans and flour, a few fresh tomatoes and some okra, a frying pan and cooking pot, stick matches—lucifers as people here called them—utensils and knives. In short, Zane and Becky had fortified themselves with everything they’d need to subsist on for a short time. But he missed the modern conveniences like paper napkins and plastic plates and cups—things he took for granted in his other world.
“Lawdy, I’s mighty glad to see you two!” Jim said when they hove into sight. He took one of the canteens and turned it up, drinking more than a quart before pausing for breath. “Ah was dry!” he gasped, capping the canteen and putting it into the boat.
“We bought lots of stuff,” Zane said, dropping the canvas sacks on the ground. “If I forgot anything, we can go back tomorrow.”
“T’morrow be de Sabbath,” Jim said.
“That’s right. I’d lost track of the days. Stores won’t be open.” This was a time when commerce still observed the Sunday respite.
“We keep de Sabbath and onliest rest tomorrow,” Jim said.
“We can go up to town Monday and scout around,” Zane said. “But it’s not likely we’ll be meetin’ up with those kidnappers,” he added for Becky’s benefit. He was afraid she’d be disappointed if no trace of them turned up after she was so wild about chasing them. The chances were very slim. This was a job for professionals.
As they sliced bacon and soaked some beans to cook over a driftwood fire, Zane filled Jim in on what the clerk had said, and the number of steamboats he’d seen at the wharf. “Lots of freight stacked everywhere, and people milling around like ants,” he said. “Most o’ the boats are headed upstream.” He paused and thought for a moment. “Isn’t it a little late to be starting out?” He recalled the histories he’d read of the pioneers traversing the snowy Rockies in the fall, and some even being caught by fatal storms, like the Donner party.
Jim nodded. “Iffen ah was goin’, I’d start in de spring soon’s dere’s ’nuff grass for de animals. Dat be a long way across.” He poked up the fire and placed a few flat rocks in a circle around the flames. “Gener’ly, dey be mo’ storms in de spring wid hail and such, but ah reckon ah could put up wid dat. Dem mountains would be de tough part.”
Becky was energetic, but quiet. She took over the cooking, making flapjacks from the flour. Zane was impressed. She might have looked like a spoiled rich kid who was an only child without a mother, but somebody—maybe the cook, Elsa—had taught her a few skills. And Becky was all for using them.
While the bacon was sizzling, Jim cleaned out his pistol and reloaded with dry powder.
Becky seemed very pleased with her new outfit, especially the sandals and the divided riding skirt.
Jim had selected a campsite that was far enough back under the trees as to be out of easy eyeshot of anyone on the river, or walking along the shoreline. Over time, floodwaters had deposited a thick layer of sand fifty or sixty yards inland from the present river channel. It was level, hard sand with only a few scrubby bushes penetrating it.
“Now dat we’s got blankets, maybe it be better if Miss Becky sleep in de boat, offen de groun’, and away from de bugs,” Jim said. “When me and Huck was on de river last year, we slept mostly in de daytimes. Don’t seem to be as many critters walking ’round den.”
Zane figured Jim was including snakes and wild boars in that assessment, but didn’t say so to keep from scaring Becky.
After supper, when the tin plates, frying pan, and cooking pot were scoured out with clean white sand and rinsed in canteen water, the trio lounged about the fire, Jim smoking some fresh, aromatic tobacco.
Zane, who would’ve required at least an air mattress or foam pad to camp out in his father’s zippered nylon tent at home, realized he hadn’t given a thought to sleeping on the sand with only a blanket. Except for three nights in Sid Sawyer’s bed, he’d spent the rest of the past week out of doors.
He began to plan ahead and assess their options. If they saw no trace of the kidnappers, how could they tell Sheriff Stiles or the St. Louis police where to start looking? Becky could inform them about the house in the swamp where she was held. Yet, by the time any lawmen could locate that, the kidnappers and hostages would surely have vanished.
Becky would have to return home soon, in spite of the fact that Tom and Huck were still missing. At least the judge must be notified as to her whereabouts and her safety. But how to find the judge? He and Sheriff Stiles were possibly in St. Louis at this moment, thinking Becky was still a captive and wondering when Tom and Huck would show up in the yawl, according to the general plan. And of course, Zane thought, now the judge and sheriff would be thinking he and Jim were also missing. The law would be looking for all of them.
Maybe it would be best if he and Jim sold the yawl and the three of them returned to St. Petersburg by steamboat to tell their story to the authorities and let the law take it from there.
He and Jim and Becky had done about all they could for now.
CHAPTER 16
* * *
Tom and Huck lived the next several hours in terror of having their nostrils notched.
While the sun was setting, Smealey entered the room and set a small can of water on the floor. Standing in front of the boys, he began to strop his shiny Bowie knife on his leather belt. Grinning, Injun Joe’s former partner tested it carefully with his thumb, then continued to strop the blade. He produced a small cube of lye soap from a pocket, lathered up his whiskers, and began to shave.
Tom tried to look away and think of something else, but still couldn’t shut out the oily laugh and the scrape . . . scrape . . . sound of the deadly blade. Chills crawled up his sweaty back when he envisioned the keen edge coming for them next. He swallowed hard and looked across at Huck who was staring at the Bowie knife as if it were a coiling rattler.
After an agonizing several minutes, Smealey finished shaving, and wiped the blade on his pants leg. He tossed the remainder of the can of water onto the floor, laughed, shoved the knife back into its sheath, and walked out of the room.
Only then did Tom let out a deep sigh, realizing that, for the moment, they were safe from being sliced up. His heart rate began to slow down.
“Hucky, you think maybe we could slip out the back door after dark and snatch one o’ them horses?”
“Even if they was tame enough, we’d need a rope or a halter, or sumpin’. And they’re likely hobbled.”
“Maybe we could grab the mane and sling a leg over the back of one of ’em,” Tom said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.
Huck was silent for a moment. “Even if we could do it without them catching us, where would we go?”
“Anywheres away from here.”
“We’d still be in a fix with no food or water, out in the swamp in the dark with our hands shackled. B’sides, if they catch us tryin’ to escape, Smealey might notch our noses for sure.”
“We can’t stay here and wait for them to kill us.”
“You said yourself Smealey ain’t gonna kill us ’til they’s over into the territory. We’d best wait for a better chance.”
Tom acknowledged this was a wise plan, but could hardly contai
n the itch for action. Anything was better than waiting and wondering.
The sun dropped below the surrounding trees and long, gray shadows crept through the vacant rooms of the old house.
Tom leaned his head into the corner and dozed. When he opened his eyes again it was full dark. He could see light from a coal oil lamp leaking around the edges of the warped door to the next room. Sounds of Weir and Smealey moving about and the mumble of their voices. He listened. Not idle conversation. They were busy doing something in there. Maybe preparing to leave. He hoped so.
He started to speculate aloud about this, but the sound of Huck’s steady breathing told him his friend was asleep. Best to let him rest, he decided, so he lay down on his back and willed his muscles to release their tension. They were safe enough for now. If he could only convince his fearful instincts of that he could relax and sleep.
Tom awoke stiff and sore at dawn the next morning. His clothes were damp from dew he noticed when he wiped a sleeve across his face. The coolness of night was already giving way to muggy warmth. He sat up and saw Huck was awake. “What day is this?” he asked.
“Dunno.”
“I think maybe it’s Sunday,” Tom said. “If I was home, I’d be washing up for church and Sunday school.” He paused and thought about that. “I’d be figurin’ some way to git out of goin’. But right now, that sufferin’ don’t seem half bad.” He contemplated the relative pain of the two situations. “If a couple o’ angels come and put them two to sleep and slid off our shackles like the time they rescued John the Baptist from prison, I’d be ever so grateful. I’d never complain about Sunday school again.” The promise seemed hollow. “Maybe we should say a prayer for our delivery—ya know, since it is Sunday and all,” he added so as not to seem to be calling on the Almighty only in time of desperation.
“I can’t recollect a prayer,” Huck said.
“We can make up one. How about, Lord, give us some help.” But then he thought that sounded too demanding. “Or at least don’t help those two out there,” he added.