“I’m going out. We need money for supplies and passage.” Sarah still lay face down but raised her shoulders from the bed.
Turning her teary face toward the blurred stocky figure, the fiery thought of revenge, which had sustained her to that point, vanished. “I don’t want to go to the West. I will stay in St. Louis.”
Jacob’s hands paused at the last button of his breeches. “Woman, you have little or no money and you know nobody here. You’re going with me. You have no other choice.”
Sarah rolled over and sat up, her body wracked with sobs. Jacob’s fingertips rubbed the stubble on his chin. Striding to the bed, he sat beside her, putting his hand on the small of her back. She flinched.
“You know, Sarah, there are many bad people out there. They could take advantage of you. I will keep you safe. And…and…I like your company.”
She looked up at him incredulously, “You like my company?”
Withdrawing his hand from her waist, he said gruffly “Yes, I like your company. Let me show you something that will cheer you up. I have a plan.” Glancing furtively about as if spying eyes filled the tiny hotel room, he reached into the breast pocket of his coat and drew out the worn and tattered document that she had found days earlier in his satchel.
“There’s gold out there and I have a map.”
Wiping the tears from her eyes with her wrists, she pretended surprise. “A gold map?”
“Yes, Sarah. This is our perfect hand. Four Aces. We will be rich.”
“Oh, Jacob,” Sarah forced a smile. She knew Jacob would mistake her reaction as one of interested excitement. He would not suspect the sudden rush of power she felt, now that she was certain how important this map and the gold were to him. Her hopeless panic of a few minutes before vanished. She felt a resurgence of the calm cold that had permeated her emotions after the first rape.
Her gaze was drawn to the reddish-brown stain in the corner of the map. “Where did you get this map? How do you know it’s real?” She felt a jolt as she realized the red smear in the corner of the old parchment was dried blood. “What is that stain?”
He ignored her questions. “We get along well, woman. I will take care of you. Besides, we fit together pretty well. I notice you’ve begun to like it.”
Sarah’s lips pursed tightly but she said nothing as Jacob grabbed his hat, shoved the knife in his boot and headed toward the door, calling back over his shoulder, “I’m going to go fleece some money and find out about how we get west from here.” The door slammed behind him. Sarah sighed in relief at the sound and at the realization that he had not locked it.
She remained on the bed. She had spread her dress over her legs but her drawers remained bunched around her ankles. Yes, you owe me, Jacob O’Shanahan.
Wanting to indulge herself for the few hours she had alone, she walked to the door and locked it. Closing the curtains on the windows, she sat in the single threadbare chair, pausing every few minutes to listen for footsteps outside the door. Emptying the contents of her satchel, she opened the secret compartment. She removed only five cents, the cost of a bath. She didn’t want Jacob to find even a spare dime in her purse. Her nose wrinkled at the pungent smell of their sex and she recoiled. She couldn’t wait to wash the odor of him from her body. Dressing quickly, she hurried down to the hotel bathhouse.
The hotel’s common bath area was separated into male and female areas. The women’s section was planked rough, weathered wood. Its tile floor was slick, much of the floor covering cracked with age. There were four tubs separated into cubicles only by thin cotton curtains. Plump matrons with aprons scurried back and forth with pails of hot water. A warm, moist, mist hung in the air suspending a pleasant though pungent fragrance of soap and perfume. Sitting in one of the chairs by the door, she waited for a tub to free up. A cheery attendant, sweat rolling down her florid face and her gray hair stringy with the humidity, wallowed over to her, “All set, missy,” she said with a smile. “How hot would you like your water?”
“Hot. Hot as I can bear,” she said.
Luxuriating in the steaming water replete with bubbles, her body finally relaxed but her mind stayed active. Jacob’s disclosure of the map had triggered a series of disjointed thoughts. Will my plan work? His debt to me is far more than just money.
She was back in the room several hours later feeling more like herself than at any point since the first horrible hour on the train, almost a week before. Jacob sauntered in a half hour later.
“Jacob, I’ve decided to go west with you.”
Looking up from his money pouch, the stocky tow-head beamed at her. “I knew you had sense in you, woman.” Shifting his eyes toward the door, he lowered his voice. “But remember, this is our secret. Not a word to anyone about the map.”
“Not a whisper, Jacob. This will be our secret.”
CHAPTER 41
MARCH 15, 1855
MONEY FOR THE JOURNEY
Feeling particularly good about Sarah’s agreement to accompany him west and her interest in the map and gold, Jacob explored the grimy streets around the hotel. He whistled to himself as he walked. Getting a tad sweet on her, are you, Mister O’Shanahan? And she on me?”
Inquiring from a group of men loitering at a bar entrance, he learned the locations of several good card games. Singling out one of the unkempt group whose clothing was more tattered than the others, he motioned him away from the group.
Pulling the flask from his pocket, he asked if he knew about wagon trains west. The man’s tongue played over his lips when he saw the silver container.
Eyeing the scalloped silver of the container, the man offered a sullen “Yes.”
“A drink for a name,” said Jacob.
The man took a long swig. Jacob had to wrest the flask from his hand. “That’s enough, mate.”
“If you’re headed west from here like those other fools, I hear the best wagon master is that son of a bitch they call Mac.”
“Mac?” Jacob repeated.
“For Macintyre. He’s a Mick!”
“Well, that should make him a fine fellow. Where can I find him?”
The man belched. “He’s usually down by the livery stables over on the west side of town at the end of Fourth. Down by the river south of the steamboat wharfs. They ferry across there because the river is shallower. I hear he’s putting together a train now. Another drink?”
“That bit of information wasn’t worth the first drink,” snapped Jacob harshly. Backing away from the man, he walked down the street. I will inquire further at Six Mile House and Kraft’s Saloon, the bars those slobs recommended for the best poker games and easy marks.
Six-Mile House was bursting with roughly dressed, unshowered people, mostly men, virtually all armed. That boot knife is of little use here. I’ve got to get me a pistol. Thick putrid cigar smoke curled around the vertical log posts supporting the second floor. Mirrors behind the long bar reflected all shapes and sizes of glasses, pumps and cheap whiskey bottles. Calling for drinks and elbowing for position around the bar, women in low-cut gaudy dresses and rouge with brightly painted lips sat on customer’s laps. Raucous piano melodies strained futilely against the clamor. A steady parade of couples stumbled drunkenly up the stairs to the second floor. Periodic curses echoed above the cacophony of the overall din. Spotting several circles of men far in the back corner playing cards, he moved in that direction, shouldering people out of the way.
The poker tables were full. Drooping over one of the tables was a smaller young man, his nose swaying from side-to-side over his pile of chips and the line of empty shot glasses in front of him. Though the man was dealt into every hand, he had not picked any cards; instead, the player to the man’s left reached over before each hand and threw the man’s ante into the pot.
Pushing his way to the young player’s side, Jacob roughly shoved his shoulder. “You’re done playing.”
Turning slowly, keeping his elbows planted on the felt of the poker table not to fall out o
f his chair. The man slurred, “Shit, no I ain’t.”
“Shit, yes, you are.”
Grabbing the man by his collar, he threw him to the floor, seating himself in the vacant chair. The table fell silent. Jacob was sorely tempted to stash some of the drunken man’s chips. I’m being watched too close. Never pull it off. Sweeping the chips off the table with his fore-arm, they bounced and rolled around the drunken form on the wood planking, he snapped, “Never seen an Irishman before? Deal.”
*****
Returning to the room several hours later, he stumbled from the door, throwing his money pouch on the bedside table where it landed with a heavy metallic thud. Pretending to be asleep Sarah held her breath, as she felt his eyes on the curve of her hips and buttocks, hoping he was half-drunk and too tired. Shaking off his boots and muttering, he crawled into bed with his clothes on.
“I’ve got everything fixed now, woman,” he mumbled brokenly to the opposite wall.
He began snoring loudly. He reeked of whiskey and tobacco smoke. Facing away from him, Sarah opened her eyes, and relaxed now that she was certain to be spared his touch. Reaching carefully over, she took a few coins from the pouch. He won’t have any idea how much he had actually won.
CHAPTER 42
MARCH 16, 1855
MAC
Standing with Johannes in the dusty side street, Reuben was grateful for the comforting press of the pistol holster tied to his thigh. Everywhere around them, there were rough-looking characters. This is certainly the fringe of the frontier. Some men wore coonskin caps, scalp belts dangled from the waists of many. Each of them was carrying a Sharps, Enfield or Greene rifle. Some had pistols in their belts, usually ball and cap, and fringed knife scabbards hung low off of their waistbands. The end of the 4th Street alley overlooked the Mississippi River, one half mile downstream from scores of riverboats, their high black single or double stacks belching steam and smoke. Side paddle wheels glistened wetly in uneven cadence from the boats mooring or departing the levee, headed to or from the channel in the center of the wide expanse of river.
At the end of the alley were makeshift corrals, some with oxen, others with mules or horses, most of which looked well-tended. To the side of the corrals perched a large, low, building of aged wood. Gusting off the river, an eastward wind stirred dust devils. Swirling and dancing along the street, their whirling edges dissipated as they made contact with the buildings.
Making their way toward the sign that said ‘‘Livery Stable,” Reuben’s eyes soaked in details and people, particularly a tall, buckskin-clad figure leaning against the side of a building, watching them over fingers that were rolling a smoke.
“This must be it.” Johannes’ voice diverted Reuben’s attention from the lanky frontiersman. In the open stalls at the front of the building and just inside the door, five blacksmiths were industriously shaving horses’ hooves and fitting shoes. Broad-shouldered Morgan and Quarter horses, bred to pull and haul, whinnied in the stalls. At the end of the stalls, there was a table of sorts, made from a door set atop some hay bales, empty wooden water barrels serving as seats. A short but very broad, muscular man with red hair, mustache and thick curly beard sat on one of the barrels. The weathered etchings on his face and his biting blue eyes below shaggy, red, eyebrows were animated. He was emphatically waving some papers in his left hand, pointing them repeatedly at a smaller, unshaven, sallow-faced man sitting on another barrel.
“I’m going to buy fifty of your sorry animals, and I won’t pay more than five dollars a head.”
He had a deep, thunderous voice. Though Reuben and Johannes were now standing by the makeshift table, the red-haired man didn’t give them a glance. Staring pointedly at the other man, his whole body pushed forward. He punctuated the air with a stab of his finger at the recipient of his words. “And that’s my final offer.”
Each time the red-haired man gestured, the other man winced and lowered his pale, thin, pinched face, his look darting more than once to Johannes and Reuben, as if to seek help. The little man finally squeaked, “Okay, Mac. You can have the damn horses for five dollars a head but I expect an extra trunk-load of pelts when you come back.”
Mac’s shoulders relaxed. Reaching out a massive arm, he clapped the man on his shoulder, almost knocking him from the barrel.
“That’s my boy, Seymour,” he bellowed. “Have them here tomorrow afternoon. I aim to get this circus started daybreak three days from now.”
Seymour started to walk away. “And Seymour…”
The little man turned. His hands were shaking and his face was white. “Nothing lame or sick or I will shoot ‘em and you’ll replace them for free. Or else I might shoot you instead.”
Seymour nodded and scurried for the open end of the livery.
Turning his attention to Reuben and Johannes, he eyed them silently for a few moments. We are being sized up.
“What can I do for you lads?” His tone was uninterested. Johannes and Reuben stood relaxed. Wanting to make it clear the appraisal was mutual, Reuben waited to answer. “We’re headed to Cherry Creek, western Kansas Territory,” said Reuben.
“I know where Cherry Creek is,” Mac snapped. “Do you have your own wagon or will you be needin’ one?”
“We’ll plan to purchase our own horses, a set each. We’d like to travel with the train for protection. We can help with the hunting and moving that herd you just bought if they are replacement teams. However, we do have some friends. They are ladies.”
“Really? Ladies?” Mac shook his head, rolling his eyes, and looked up to the ceiling.
“They will require a wagon,” Reuben said evenly.
“Is that so?” Mac rubbed his great, red beard with stubby fingers, studying Reuben closely. “How will they pay?”
“Cash, up front.”
“Give me your hands,” demanded Mac. He grabbed Johannes’ hands first, twisting the palms upward. Releasing them with a mutter of disgust, he grasped Reuben’s next. He held them for a while, looking into Reuben’s eyes.
“You’ve worked on the land.” It was more of a statement than a question. “Livestock?”
“Cattle,” Reuben replied.
Mac sat back down. His eyes dropped to their revolvers. “Know how to shoot?”
“We do.”
“Fine, then. There’s some things men on horseback can help with. You’ll pay for your own supplies and provisions. You’ll give me work equal to my full fee, which is one hundred dollars. If you’ve lied to me and you’re worthless, I will leave your sorry asses for the Injuns or the buzzards, whichever gets you first. Your lady friends owe the one hundred dollars but I’ll throw in a wagon for them. Going to need an extra rig to haul pelts back from Cherry Creek, anyway. But the team is your problem. I won’t charge you anything else except for feed for the horses.”
The wagon master stood up.
“You’ve got yourself a deal,” said Reuben firmly. They shook hands, Mac’s weathered countenance breaking into a smile.
“I’ll choose a good wagon for your ladies. I think a Prairie Schooner will be easier for them to handle than a Conestoga. Daybreak, two days from now. I won’t wait.” Pausing when they emerged into the dusty sunlight of the alley. Johannes glanced back at the livery. “Now that was an ox of a fellow. I like him.”
“Yes, I think he is someone to ride the river with.”
“Ride the river with?” Johannes’ tone was puzzled.
Reuben took off the new, wide-brimmed, western hat he had purchased at Booraems, running his hand through his hair. “Something the scout wrote to my father in one of his letters. I think it means he can be trusted.”
CHAPTER 43
MARCH 16, 1855
COMMUPPANCE
Rising early, Jacob toyed with the idea of taking Sarah before he left but he was anxious to line up their passage west. He had extracted directions from one of the poker players to the livery stable where Mac the wagon master conducted business.
Reach
ing the dusty alley, he glanced at the barely legible 4th Street sign that flapped in the wind. Glad they use numbers rather than words on these street markers. He took a moment to reflect on the impressive sight of scores of steamboats upriver. Bet there are some damn good games on them.
He began the dusty walk down the narrow street toward the river. Men were lounging in the shade of buildings or sitting on crude log benches following his progress. Jacob felt uneasy. These men in the frontier outfits radiated a cold, suspicious energy toward him, as if they somehow sensed his sordid history. Trying to ignore them, he marched into the livery, wrinkling his nose distastefully at the smell of hay and manure. Ignoring the industrious work of the blacksmiths, he focused instead on a big, redheaded, bear of a man shouting orders at the other end of the barn. Walking over to him, Jacob held out his hand.
Turning cold blue eyes on him, he looked him over once, then again. Leaning to the side, he spit out a chew of tobacco. Some of the brown juice caught in his beard. He didn’t take Jacob’s hand.
“Are you Mac?” Jacob asked. “I am.”
A silence ensued, Jacob restlessly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. One hand played with the gold pieces in his pocket.
“I hear you’re heading up a wagon train going west.”
Threads West, an American Saga Page 22