Opal

by Lauraine Snelling

  At this bend in his life there were no easy answers.

  ‘‘Come.’’ He made his way to the ticket window in the station house. ‘‘Excuse me.’’

  The man in the green eyeshade turned from the counter and smiled. ‘‘How can I help you?’’

  ‘‘We are new in town, just got off the train, and I need both a job and a place to stay for both of us.’’ He indicated the child by his side.

  ‘‘I see.’’ The man nodded, appearing to be thinking. ‘‘What kind of work do you do?’’

  ‘‘I-I’ve been a farmer and a teacher.’’ He had taught, that was for sure, just not in the local school for children. ‘‘I’m good with my hands too. My pa made sure I learned how to do most anything that needed doing on the homeplace.’’

  ‘‘I see.’’ A nod accompanied the words. ‘‘Well, we don’t have much farming here, all ranching. Can you ride a horse?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘Rope cattle?’’

  ‘‘I could learn.’’

  The man rolled his eyes. ‘‘Roping is not something you learn overnight. Can you handle a hammer and saw?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps you better go on over to see Adams at the general store. He’d have a better idea than I do about available work. As for a place to stay, you’d best buy yourself a tent and pitch it with the others out there.’’ He motioned toward the other side of the railroad tracks where various kinds of shelters had been put up. ‘‘Medora’s booming, that’s what she is, thanks to the marquis.’’

  ‘‘De Mores?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. All this you see around here is due to one man’s dream—Marquis de Mores. He should be arriving any day with his family from New York. They live there during the school year and here during the summers. Named the town after his wife, he did.’’

  ‘‘I’d heard there was a lot of building going on here.’’

  ‘‘Biggest slaughterhouse—they call it an abattoir—west of the Mississippi. He ships the beeves in ice-cooled railroad cars. You wouldn’t believe all the cattle coming in here.’’

  ‘‘I see.’’ Jacob glanced behind when he heard someone clear his throat. ‘‘Sorry.’’ He turned back to the stationmaster. ‘‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful. Come, Joel.’’

  The man had motioned toward the northern section of town.

  The two-story building must be the store. Off to the west he could see a tall brick smokestack with several large buildings surrounding it and a plethora of corrals and chutes. As they walked he studied the buildings. Several very nice houses, a brick Catholic church, log buildings, and off to the south on a hill sat a huge two-story house, perhaps where the elite family lived. Dust rose from the dirt streets as horse carts and oxen-drawn drays, many filled with building materials, passed by. Horses jogged down the street, being ridden by what must be cowboys, with their leather-covered legs and wide-brimmed hats. A sign on one building said Boardinghouse, so he motioned Joel to follow him through the gate and up to the porch. He knocked at the door and, while waiting for an answer, continued studying the surroundings. From the looks of things, there weren’t a lot of women living here.

  Joel sat down on the porch floor, propping his elbows on his knees, his back to his father. If dejection needed a picture, he was it.

  Jacob turned when the door opened and touched the brim of his hat. ‘‘Good morning, ma’am. My son and I, we’re looking for a place to stay.’’

  ‘‘Sorry, I’m all full up, same as all the other places here.’’

  ‘‘I see. Well, thank you.’’

  ‘‘If I was you, I’d check on over at the store. Adams might know of something.’’

  ‘‘Thank you. We were on our way there.’’ Jacob nodded and touched his hat again. ‘‘Come, Joel.’’

  ‘‘Your boy is lookin’ a mite peaked. You eaten today?’’

  ‘‘Well, yes, early.’’

  ‘‘Wait here.’’ She returned in a couple of minutes and handed a bag out the door. ‘‘Something to tide him over.’’

  ‘‘Thank you. You’ve been most kind.’’ Jacob took the package and turned to go. ‘‘Come on, Joel.’’

  Without a word, the boy rose and followed him out the gate.

  ‘‘Are you hungry?’’

  Joel only shrugged.

  ‘‘Thirsty?’’

  A brief nod.

  Jacob exhaled a breath of frustration. ‘‘Joel, I cannot read your mind. If you need something, you must ask me.’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir.’’

  Lord, give me patience, and I need it right now. ‘‘I wonder if there is a public well here. Have you seen a pump or anything?’’

  ‘‘No, sir.’’

  ‘‘We’ll ask at the store.’’

  Paint had not touched the general store, the wooden siding bleached into a silver sheen. Two rocking chairs took up a goodly part of the front stoop, topped by a slanted shake roof.

  ‘‘You want to wait out here? You can help yourself to whatever that kind lady gave you.’’

  Joel took the package and settled into one of the rocking chairs, paying no more attention to Jacob than if he’d been a total stranger.

  Jacob watched him carefully fold back the paper, then, sure that the boy would be fed, he pushed open the door, setting a bell to tinkling.

  The ripe and varied smells of a store that carried everything from pickles to pots, beeswax to beans, waxed familiar. There had been a similar store in his hometown when he was young. He looked up to see tools hung high on the walls, bridles draped under the shovels, saddles on sawhorses, men’s pants and shirts, hats and boots. A wheel of cheese sat under a glass dome. Spices and tobacco tins lined the wall behind the tired wooden counter. A roll of brown paper on a frame and a cone of string on a pole held places of honor, along with a scissors connected by twine to the underside of the bar.

  A man dwarfed the sorry apron tied with a many-knotted string around a nonexistent waist above equally lacking hips. The brush on his cheeks more than made up for the thin stubble on top of a knobby head. His nose, a big hooked knob, perched between deep-set eyes above a small mouth and a chin that forgot to show up.

  ‘‘What can I get you, son?’’

  ‘‘Mostly information, I think. I’m Jacob Chandler. My son and I arrived on the train, and I had no idea there would be no place to stay. Besides that, I need a job. The stationmaster said you might know where I could get both.’’

  ‘‘I see. What can you do?’’

  ‘‘Whatever I need to. Grew up on a farm, went to school, got a good education.’’

  ‘‘Can you keep books?’’

  ‘‘If I need to. I heard there is already a schoolteacher here.’’

  ‘‘Was. He left for the summer. We’re hoping he comes back.’’

  He glanced out the front window. ‘‘What about your boy?’’

  ‘‘Be good if I could work somewhere that he can be near. We don’t know anyone here.’’

  ‘‘Hmm. Let me think on this. If you got tent, bedrolls, you can make camp anywhere you find a bare spot.’’

  ‘‘No, we have none of that. Just our clothes, personal things.’’ All because we left in such a hurry I didn’t take time to think. How could I have been so careless?

  ‘‘You plannin’ on stayin’ round here?’’

  ‘‘Looks that way. I have to get work, and soon.’’

  ‘‘Tell you what. I generally only run a tab with fellers I know, but you seem an honest sort. You want to buy some bedding and a tent, some supplies, you can pay me when you get work. Fact is, if you’d like to catch up on my bookwork for me, that could be a first payment.’’

  ‘‘How much would those supplies run?’’ He choked at the amount the man quoted. ‘‘Let me think on this. There any other places needing a good hand?’’

  ‘‘Well, roundup is about to start. Sometimes some of the spreads put on an extra man or two.’’

&n
bsp; ‘‘Spreads?’’

  ‘‘The ranches. Lot of cattle being run, got to be rounded up, calves branded, cut. Stock treated. Roundup’s a big operation.’’ He turned to a man who had just walked in. ‘‘What can I do for you, Robertson?’’

  Jacob stepped back and let the proprietor take care of his customer. He wandered around the store, looking at the tools for both building and ranching. What would he need to keep a home not only for himself but for his son? Lord, why did I run off so halfcocked? Plain, stupid old pride is why. I was ashamed, so I ran. And now I can run no farther because I have no money, or very little. He thought to his comfortable little parsonage house with the huge pile of split wood. How must his congregation be feeling about his just disappearing like that?

  I cannot go back, and I will not repeat the mistake of letting too many people depend on me. I will make a life for us here. I close the door on the past and live in the day of today. No one needs to know what has gone before. I am not the man I was then.

  He stared at the wall without seeing, without hearing anything but the slamming of the door and shooting home the bolt on his past.

  It is finished.

  ‘‘Young man.’’

  The sound finally penetrated. Jacob turned, tapping his chest with his finger and raising an eyebrow.

  ‘‘Yes, come here.’’ The store’s proprietor waved him back to the counter. ‘‘I want you to meet Mr. Ward Robertson. Oh, guess I don’t rightly know your name.’’

  ‘‘I am Jacob Chandler.’’ He held out his hand. ‘‘Good to meet you, Mr. Robertson.’’ Glancing at the man behind the counter, he waited.

  ‘‘I could use another hand.’’ Robertson looked Jacob over. ‘‘Sorry, but I can’t offer much more than room and board. Adams says you have a boy?’’

  Jacob stepped to the window. ‘‘Joel. He’s sitting out front in that chair. He’s seven.’’

  But the chair was empty. As was the one beside it. Jacob sprinted for the door. ‘‘Joel!’’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘‘Joel! Joel!’’ Jacob ran from one side of the storefront to the other, searching up and down the street and along the sides of the building.

  ‘‘We’ll find him.’’ The storekeeper stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  ‘‘I told him to sit in that chair, and now he is gone.’’

  ‘‘He can’t have gone far. Besides, everyone knows everyone in this town. Don’t worry.’’

  Robertson, the man who’d come into the store, joined the two men. ‘‘I’ll help. You go that way, and I’ll go this.’’

  ‘‘Good.’’ Jacob nodded his thanks and headed to the left. Ahead of him he could see the scree at the bottom of the cliff striped with layers of rock in gray and brick and tan. He turned to the right and strode between the buildings, calling his son’s name. Where could he have gone?

  Worry and fear met up with anger, and the three formed a partnership. They rode Jacob’s shoulders like harpies of ancient Greek tragedies, lashing him with scorn. You left him. He’s too little to be left alone. What kind of a father are you? You don’t care about him anyway. He’s nothing but a burden.

  ‘‘Joel?’’ Jacob called again and then followed the answer that came from beside the pump. ‘‘Joel, I told you to stay put in that chair.’’

  ‘‘But I was thirsty.’’ Joel gave another pull down on the pump handle. ‘‘I can’t get any water.’’

  ‘‘But you have to do what I tell you. Why didn’t you come ask me?’’ Was that a glare he saw before the boy ducked his head and stared at the ground? Jacob took the handle and pumped with quick jerks until water gushed from the spout. ‘‘Help yourself.’’

  ‘‘I don’t have a cup.’’

  ‘‘Use your hands, like this.’’ Jacob cupped his hands, but by the time he got them under the flow, the water slowed to a trickle. ‘‘Put your hands like that, and I’ll pump water into them.’’

  Joel did as told and slurped from the water fast draining out. He cupped his hands under the flow again, a lesser volume now that Jacob pumped more slowly. He drank four times before stepping back.

  ‘‘You finished?’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir.’’

  ‘‘Good, then we need to go back. Other men are looking for you. You must never just take off like that. You understand me?’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir.’’

  ‘‘Did your mother allow you to just go wherever you wanted?’’

  Joel kicked at a chip of wood, his hands rammed deep in his pockets.

  ‘‘I asked you a question.’’ Jacob flinched at the sideways look he caught from the boy walking beside him. Sullen, no. Angry, yes. Was the boy harboring anger at him?

  ‘‘Mr. Robertson.’’ Jacob waved as he called the man’s name. ‘‘I found him over at the pump. Thank you for your help.’’ He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, only to have him flinch away.

  Was finding a place to work and a roof over their heads not enough to handle without an obstreperous child?

  ‘‘You want to ride out with me? I got the wagon right around the side of the store.’’ Mr. Robertson stopped on his way back into the store. ‘‘You can help me load up.’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’ Jacob sat Joel back down in the chair. ‘‘Now, listen to me. You stay right there, you hear?’’

  Joel nodded and clamped his arms across his chest. Wet marks darkened his shirt and down his pants, proof that he’d drunk.

  ‘‘There’s more inside.’’ Mr. Robertson came out with a sack of flour over one shoulder.

  Jacob reentered the dimness of the building. ‘‘What can I carry out?’’

  ‘‘That sack of beans. There’ll be more.’’

  Jacob hefted the hundred-pound sack and threw it over one shoulder, grunting under the weight. He staggered slightly and regained his footing. While he was used to swinging an ax to split wood, he’d not often hoisted heavy sacks over his shoulder. Once outside, he rounded the corner and dumped the sack in the back of the wagon Mr. Robertson pointed to.

  Five sacks and many more bundles, some in tow sacks, some wrapped in paper, joined the flour and beans.

  ‘‘Okay, that’s it.’’ Mr. Robertson climbed up on the wagon seat. ‘‘What’s your boy’s name again?’’

  ‘‘Joel . . .’’ He almost slipped and said Melody’s maiden name. If he used his name, he could add one more lie to the load he already carried, but if he didn’t use his name, he left himself open to questioning. No wonder the Bible had such strong injunctions on telling the truth.

  ‘‘Joel, come now. Bring your satchel.’’ He leaned around the building to make sure the boy was still in the chair. He was. The thudding he’d been hearing was the sound of a boot toe slamming against the post holding up the slanted roof. If the arms and the kicking foot were any indication, Joel had picked up sullenness and brought it along for the ride.

  Jacob felt like snatching the boy up by his collar, but instead he stopped in front of him, one foot up on the porch floor.

  ‘‘Joel, Mr. Robertson has offered me a job and us a place to live. We are going home with him now, so pick up your satchel and come along.’’

  ‘‘I want to find my ma.’’

  O Lord, be merciful to us. How do I help this child? ‘‘Joel, we’ll talk of this later. Right now we are keeping a busy man waiting.’’

  ‘‘She’s dead, ain’t she? You just don’t want to tell me.’’

  ‘‘I-I’m afraid—’’ ‘‘No, she isn’t. You’re lying.’’ Joel leaped off the stoop, ran around the corner, and climbed into the back of the wagon. The brief glimpse Jacob had of his face was mute evidence that Joel was fighting tears and didn’t want anyone to know.

  Well, so much for all his ministering skills of helping people with grief. Jacob castigated himself repeatedly as he stepped on the wagon wheel spoke and climbed up to the seat. Perhaps if he sat beside the boy . . . But he remained where he was, and Mr. Robertson hupped the team toward h
ome, wherever that might be. At least they would have a place to lay their heads tonight and a roof over their heads, along with full bellies if the rear load was any indication.

  ‘‘Is his mother really dead?’’ Robertson kept his voice low, so as not to be heard above the squeaking wheels and trotting horses.

  Jacob wanted to say that it was none of his business, but since the man was good enough to take them in, he deserved more than a surly response.

  ‘‘I don’t know. She had severe consumption, and she . . . ah . . . disappeared.’’ He tried to keep his voice dispassionate, but the lump in his throat caused a stumble. Like a cat gone off to die was the way it sounded. Ah, Melody . . .

  ‘‘I’m sorry for your loss. Long time ago or recent?’’

  ‘‘Last week.’’

  Robertson nodded slowly. ‘‘I see.’’

  ‘‘So we came west.’’ Not an excuse but a statement of fact.

  ‘‘Land here has a way of easing a burden. Plenty of hard work to hide in.’’

  Jacob glanced over at the driver. Eyes that gazed far beyond the distance, hands gentle on the reins, Ward Robertson looked over his shoulder and nodded. He gave a slight dip of his head, as if they’d formed a pact and needed no more for a signature. If the man thought anything peculiar about his new hand and son, he’d most likely keep it to himself. Jacob figured that if he ever needed to go to battle, he’d want Ward Robertson on his side.

  Not having seen a single dwelling along the road for a long while, Jacob was pleased when they finally topped a rise and saw a ranch house snugged against the hill’s south slope. Walls that looked to have grass growing like fur on the sides and a roof of split cedar shakes used the hill for its backside. Two young girls came running to meet them.

  ‘‘What’d you bring, Pa?’’ The slightly taller one ran alongside the turning wheel.

  ‘‘Stay back now, or there won’t be any treats for nosy sisters.’’ Mr. Robertson sounded gruff, but the smile that fell in easy creases said otherwise. ‘‘The smaller one is Ada Mae, then Emily. I’ve got a wife and five daughters.’’

  Both girls ran behind and scrambled up over the wagon tail.