Opal

by Lauraine Snelling

  ‘‘Who are you?’’ Ada Mae plunked down beside their young guest.

  Jacob turned to watch.

  Joel looked away without answering.

  ‘‘Pa, where did you find the boy?’’

  ‘‘In town at the store. This here is Mr. Chandler, our new hand, and his son, Joel.’’

  ‘‘Howdy, sir,’’ they both chimed and without hesitation swung their full attention back to the boy glowering between them.

  Ah, Joel, how disappointed your mother would be in your manners today.

  ‘‘How old are you?’’

  No answer.

  ‘‘Cat got your tongue?’’ No trace of sarcasm colored Emily’s question, only curiosity.

  ‘‘With my girls, your boy might get right spoiled.’’

  He could do with some spoiling, Jacob thought, but he needn’t be rude. ‘‘Joel.’’ One word could speak for many at the right time. Jacob glanced over his shoulder and gave a parental nod to put emphasis on the command.

  Joel glowered, shoulders hunched. ‘‘Seven.’’

  ‘‘I’m Ada Mae, and I’m eight. Do you like school?’’

  ‘‘Some.’’

  Jacob turned to study the house. Two posts off to the side held up twin ropes of drying wash. Cattle grazed down the slope toward the flat field before the creek that leaped and bounded over and around the rocky draw. Grazing cattle dotted the pasture; calves raced through the grass, tails high in mock terror.

  ‘‘You have a good-looking place.’’

  ‘‘Thank you. It’s home and keeps food on the table. You and your son can bunk in that soddy off to the right. You’ll eat at the house with the rest of us. Mrs. Robertson is a right good cook.’’

  ‘‘Thank you.’’

  ‘‘We’ll unload the wagon later.’’ He raised his voice. ‘‘You had dinner yet?’’

  ‘‘No, Pa, we was waiting on you.’’ Emily grabbed one of the tow sacks.

  ‘‘Good.’’ Turning to Jacob, he said, ‘‘I’ll introduce you to everyone when we get inside.’’

  The girls leaped off the wagon before it stopped completely at the hitching post in front of the porch.

  ‘‘Leave your things here, and let’s go eat.’’

  Jacob beckoned to Joel, and the two followed Mr. Robertson, who was slightly favoring his right side, into the house.

  ‘‘Well, I’m most pleased to meet you,’’ Mrs. Robertson said after her husband had introduced her. ‘‘We’ve been needing some extra help this season. Sit down, sit down. I see you’ve met Ada Mae and Emily.’’ She laid a hand on a girl with long braids. ‘‘This is Virginia. Edith is next, and Mary, our eldest, is married and moved away.’’

  ‘‘Pleased to meet you all.’’ Jacob smiled at each of them. What a fine family. ‘‘This is my son, Joel.’’ He nearly tripped over the words, but each time he said them, it became easier.

  Mr. Robertson said grace as soon as all had taken their places. It was like a flock of birds settling down at once, first one fluttering up, then another. The fragrance of stewed meat and fresh bread nearly undid Jacob. His stomach responded with such a growl, the littlest girl, on his right, giggled behind her hand.

  ‘‘Ada Mae, mind your manners.’’ Mrs. Robertson set another bowl, this one of baked beans, on the table. ‘‘Help yourselves, now. We don’t expect anyone to leave the table hungry, thank the Lord.’’

  When she’d finally dished up her own plate, Mr. Robertson was already raising his coffee cup for a refill.

  ‘‘Now, Edith, you pour the coffee, and Virginia, since you are finished, you serve the cake.’’ Mrs. Robertson glanced over to Joel. ‘‘Son, you better have another slice of bread. It’s a long time until supper.’’

  By the time they left the table, Jacob knew he’d eaten twice what he needed.

  ‘‘Let’s get that wagon unloaded, and then I’ll want you to run through some things for me.’’

  ‘‘Fine.’’ What kind of things?

  Some time later one of the girls brought a horse in from the field. ‘‘Pa wants to see how you ride.’’

  ‘‘Ah, fine.’’ Jacob looked at the saddle. ‘‘We never had a saddle, however, we just rode bareback.’’

  Virginia looked toward her father. ‘‘Should I give him a lesson, then?’’

  ‘‘No, you can do that later. Right now, young man, I’d like to see you ride.’’

  ‘‘You mount by putting your left foot into the stirrup, left hand on the horn, right on the cantle.’’ Virginia identified each piece by a touch of her hand. ‘‘Then pull yourself up, swinging your right leg over the horse’s rump.’’

  Jacob knew his thank-you was not heartfelt, but since when had he needed a young girl to explain something so simple? He turned the stirrup with one hand, raised his left foot to shove it into the stirrup, and the horse moved off just a couple of feet, swishing his tail at Jacob’s clumsiness. Three times and he finally swung his right leg over as advised and settled into the saddle. ‘‘Very good, Mr. Chandler.’’ She flipped each rein up around the horse’s neck so that they crossed on the withers.

  Jacob picked up the reins, one in each hand, and clucked the horse forward.

  ‘‘You might want to walk him around the corral, get the feel of his mouth.’’

  Jacob did as told, but when he pulled on the right rein, the horse stopped.

  ‘‘That horse is trained to neck-rein, son.’’ Mr. Robertson sat watching, arms crossed on the horn. ‘‘Let me show you.’’ He exaggerated putting the reins together evenly in one hand with the ends of the reins coming up past thumb and forefinger. Nudging his horse forward, he laid the reins to the right to go right and left to go left. ‘‘Very easy. It gives you a free hand for your rope or a quirt or sometimes to hang on with. Some of our gullies are mighty steep.’’

  Jacob followed the instructions, feeling like a failure at first but gaining confidence quickly. He settled back in the saddle as his boss did and followed him out the corral gate down along the creek. Watching Robertson work his cattle gave Jacob a hint of how much he had to learn.

  As they rode past the house, Robertson whoaed his horse. ‘‘Wait here.’’ He strode into the house and returned with two rifles and two kids on his heels.

  ‘‘Can we go along, Pa? We promise to stay out of the way.’’

  ‘‘I guess.’’ The man mounted his horse and pulled his daughter up behind him. He pointed to Joel. ‘‘Go on. Get up behind your pa.’’

  Jacob reached down and, grasping Joel’s hand, pulled him up. Not as smoothly as Virginia and her father but he managed. The feel of Joel’s arms about his waist made his heart do a two-step flutter dance. My son.

  ‘‘Come on along.’’

  His horse automatically followed the other.

  ‘‘We’ll go on up the creek where I set up a target range for the girls to learn on. Everyone needs to be able to shoot out here, if for nothing else but to keep meat on the table. Snared rabbit gets awful tiresome after a while.’’

  Jacob swung Joel down, dismounted, and took the rifle offered.

  ‘‘You know how to load and fire?’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir.’’

  ‘‘Good.’’ Robertson handed Jacob a couple of shells. ‘‘See if you can hit that tin can nailed to the tree.’’ He pointed at a distant tree.

  Jacob loaded, sighted, fired, and missed. Second shot missed.

  ‘‘How about that can set on the stump?’’

  Jacob sighted, and the can pinged off the wood. Thank you, God. He sighted on a stick poking up from behind a rock. ‘‘I think your sights need some adjusting.’’

  ‘‘Good. You’ll do.’’

  Jacob let out a breath he just realized he’d been holding. If he’d been as bad a shot as he was a horseman, he and his son might have been hoofing it back to town with no job in sight.

  ‘‘My pa could shoot better’n that.’’

  Jacob spun around to catch a gleam in Joel’s eyes.
Was that malice? Or just ordinary spite?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I won’t have summer on the ranch. Ruby, how could you do this to me?

  Opal stared out the dirty train window. She was being sent east to the Brandons for her protection like a little kid being sent to her room. How could they be so cruel? All this mess because she’d had a headache and asked to go home from school early and had listened to the siren song of the river and had gone for a swim. Surely you ought to be able to go for a swim without the whole world crashing down around your ears. But it had. And it was all her fault. Atticus had been beaten to within an inch of his life, and those drifters were still loose. Atticus. Oh, Atticus, you’ve got to get well, or I’ll never forgive myself.

  Ruby had already packed Opal’s bag, and they were in the wagon on the road to town before she could do much more than catch her breath.

  ‘‘Is this seat taken?’’

  The voice jarred her out of the scene raging in her head. She looked up to see a man dressed in a black wool suit coat, his eyes dark as the coat, cigar smoke wreathing his dark hair.

  Opal glanced around. There were plenty of seats available. ‘‘No, but I can’t abide cigar smoke.’’ She sat up straighter and studied him through slitted eyes.

  ‘‘And if I put it out?’’ His voice had a nice ring to it. He could be interesting.

  Sure, just like that drifter, only dressed better. ‘‘No, thanks.’’ She turned back to face the window. She didn’t even have her gun along. Rand made her leave it at home.

  He took the seat right across the aisle. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him grind out the cigar on the windowsill and stick the remaining portion in his breast pocket.

  He reminded her of the hustlers that used to come into Dove House. They’d spend their days doing who knew what and the evenings in the cardroom.

  ‘‘I know we haven’t been properly introduced, but we could perhaps carry on a conversation, or I could go get the conductor to conduct an introduction. Makes the time pass.’’

  Opal turned slightly so she could see him better. He had put the cigar out. There were some manners taught him sometime. And Ruby hadn’t said she couldn’t talk to anybody. Why, all those times she’d carried her tray of food to sell out to the train, she’d talked to most anybody.

  True, they’d never been introduced. She turned a bit more and smiled slightly. What could they talk about?

  ‘‘Nice weather we’re having.’’

  ‘‘Yes, miss, it most surely is. You from around these parts?’’

  ‘‘Yes, and you?’’

  ‘‘You know where Seattle is?’’

  Opal shook her head. ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘It’s about as far west as you can go, right on the shores of Puget Sound in Washington Territory. I work for a packing company out there.’’

  ‘‘So where are you going now?’’

  ‘‘Chicago. What about you?’’

  ‘‘New York. I used to live there.’’

  ‘‘Never been there, but I hear it is some place. Where do you live now?’’

  ‘‘On a ranch outside of Medora.’’ Don’t you go saying too much.

  You can get in trouble here too.

  ‘‘Not much to see out here.’’

  ‘‘Not since we left the badlands. There you can never see enough.’’

  ‘‘You like the ranch?’’

  ‘‘Oh yes. I have a horse named Bay and a nephew named Per.

  He’s the cutest thing.’’

  ‘‘So why are you going to New York?’’

  Opal stared at him a moment. Because I’m being banished. ‘‘You ever play cards?’’

  ‘‘Sure. Why?’’

  ‘‘Just thought it might pass the time. It’s a shame we don’t have more people. We could play a round of poker.’’

  ‘‘That’s not exactly a lady’s game.’’

  ‘‘Depends on where the lady is from.’’ Not that I’m a lady, and if I were, I sure as shooting wouldn’t be stuck on a train heading east. The thought of Bay and the filly that would most likely be sold before she got home again made her clamp her lower lip between her teeth. All because of the drifter. Just one man, if you could call him that. She glanced back at the man across the aisle. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to tar him with the same brush, but what did she know about him? Other than being well dressed, having decent manners, and almost handsome. She’d never bothered to be much of a judge of people’s looks.

  ‘‘I could perhaps find some more players.’’

  ‘‘Anyone you know?’’

  He shook his head. ‘‘There are tables in the second car back. Several card games are already going on. But that’s not a good place for a young lady like you. I’ll go see who I can find.’’

  After he left, she thought back those few short years to the trip she and Ruby made west. She’d been scolded soundly for spying in the men’s car. Besides, it would be full of smoke, and she didn’t care for smoke at all.

  But card games were more fun with more players.

  Mr. Waters—he introduced himself as Hank Waters— returned with two other men and pointed to them as he said their names. ‘‘Bud Jamison. Miss Torvald. Tack Sanders.’’

  Opal nodded. ‘‘I’m pleased to meet you.’’ She motioned to the flat case that would be their table. ‘‘Shall we play?’’

  ‘‘We’re playing poker with a girl?’’

  She ignored the muttered remark and remembered Belle’s admonition. ‘‘You’ll get a lot further with a sweet smile. Remember, bees and honey.’’

  ‘‘Five-card draw, or do you have another preference?’’ She looked at all three, one by one.

  ‘‘That’ll be just fine.’’

  The look in Tack Sanders’ eyes, nearly hidden by brushy eyebrows and whiskers, sent a shiver up her spine. A vision of a man against the sun flashed through her mind. She glanced around the car. Two ladies were chatting a few seats away. A little boy and girl were listening to a story being read to them. A silver-haired gentleman was snoozing with his head back. Surely nothing bad could happen to her here.

  ‘‘You sure you know how to play? Five-card draw is a man’s game.’’ Bud Jamison’s gold tooth caught the light.

  Hank Waters drew a deck of cards from his breast pocket.

  ‘‘Shall I deal or would someone rather?’’

  ‘‘Let her.’’ Brushface, as Opal renamed Sanders, nodded toward her. His tone made Opal smile inside. He so obviously thought she was a chicken ready for plucking.

  Opal shuffled the deck, then, thumbs on top, she riffled the cards together. She wanted to look at the heckler to see his reaction but instead repeated the process. After dealing the hand, she waited for them to check their cards and dealt out the number they asked for.

  ‘‘Beginner’s luck,’’ Brushface muttered after she won the hand.

  Hank Waters raised one eyebrow, reached in his pocket to draw out his cigar, caught her look, and put it back. Either the other two men didn’t smoke or he’d warned them.

  ‘‘Winner deals?’’ She kept her smile inside.

  ‘‘A’course.’’ Goldtooth—Bud Jamison—twisted his mouth slightly to one side. His eyes narrowed.

  Opal shuffled again and set the cards to the right to be cut.

  ‘‘Who taught you how to play?’’ Brushface asked when she scooped in the next pile of coins.

  ‘‘A friend. Would you care for a different game?’’

  ‘‘Nah. You can’t take three in a row . . . less you’re cheatin’.’’

  ‘‘Mr. Sanders, I don’t need to cheat.’’ Cheating is against my principles.

  What about obeying your sister? The small voice slid over her right shoulder.

  If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be on this stupid train going to New York. I would be home where I belong.

  She shuffled and dealt with a snap to the cards.

  This time she tried to lose, but the two men played
so stupidly she gave up. When the bet was down to between her and Waters, she folded.

  ‘‘You two in cahoots or something?’’ Goldtooth stared at the cards. Waters had bluffed. She didn’t bother to show her cards.

  When Waters dealt, and she won the hand again, Brushface roared and slapped both hands on the leather case. The coins jumped, as did Opal.

  ‘‘You’re cheatin’!’’

  Opal sucked in a deep breath to still her rampaging heart.

  ‘‘You chit of a girl, you gotta be cheatin’!’’ He leaned across the playing surface, blowing stale beer and bad-breath fumes in her face.

  ‘‘She won fair and square.’’ Hank Waters spoke clearly, his voice soothing. His steely eyes said more.

  ‘‘You set us up.’’ Brushface slammed Waters with an elbow.

  The case tipped up, coins flying in all directions, many sliding right into Opal’s lap, as the two men surged to their feet.

  ‘‘Now, now!’’ Goldtooth waved his hands. ‘‘No need to fight about this.’’

  Hank blocked a thrown punch but tripped over the arm of the seat across the aisle. Brushface went after him with a snarl.

  ‘‘Stop it!’’ Opal pushed away the leather case. Oh, for her gun. Oh, for an escape. She was caught in the corner unless she scrambled over the back of the seat.

  Keeping one eye on the two combatants, Goldtooth knelt down to scoop up some of the scattered coins.

  ‘‘Oh no you don’t.’’ Opal took a step forward and brought her boot down on the back of his hand.

  He yelped and clutched his hand with the other. ‘‘You little . . .’’

  A woman screamed. Men hollered.

  The conductor slammed a knotted stick on Brushface’s head. ‘‘Enough!’’ His roar stopped all action. He hefted the baton again, but Brushface shook his head and raised a hand in surrender.

  ‘‘If you can’t play a fair game, get on out of here. Any more of this, and you’ll be off at the next stop.’’

  The conductor hustled the two men on to the next car, then returned to glare at Hank Waters. ‘‘There wasn’t anything underhanded here, was there?’’ He glanced over to include Opal. ‘‘Did you know this man before?’’

  ‘‘No, sir. Just thought to pass the time.’’