Through the Deep Waters

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Amos snapped out, “You like eggs, do you?”

  The boy’s skinny shoulders rose in a shrug. “Like ’em best fried over easy with salt pork an’ biscuits. But I don’t got a stove. Or salt pork. Or flour.”

  Another chuckle threatened. He’d never heard such a blatant hint.

  Pink fingers of light shot upward from the east, and the rooster paused in its scratching to arch its neck and sing out its morning wake-up call. The boy cringed. He pointed at the rooster. “That’s a real mean bird, mister. He near pecked my toe off the last time I was here. You might consider fryin’ him up for your Sunday dinner.”

  The boy was almost as bold as the rooster. “I don’t know if I should. He does a pretty good job of capturing egg thieves.”

  His head ducked low, the boy returned to poking his dirty toe against the ground.

  Both Samson and Gideon sat up and released twin whines. Amos hitched over to them, hooked the rifle in the crook of his arm, and bent over to give the pups a good-morning scratch behind the ears. He flicked a look at the boy, who stood as still as a statue in the chicken yard, his cautious gaze aimed at the strutting rooster.

  Swallowing a chortle, Amos released the pups from their restraining ropes and didn’t even call them back when they shot straight for the boy, barking with glee. The boy dropped to his knees and loved on the dogs, his smile so wide it seemed his face might split. Even though he’d lost eggs to this boy—as well as his peace of mind and a half hour of sleep—Amos couldn’t help grinning at the happy wrestling match taking place.

  But the sun was rising and he had work waiting. So he snapped his fingers. “Samson, Gideon, come.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Gideon separated himself from the boy and galloped across the yard to Amos. Samson followed closely behind. Both pups plopped down on their bottoms and looked up at Amos with tongues lolling. He gave them each a pat on the head, then looked at the boy, who remained on his knees in the grass.

  His heart panged at the child’s bereft face. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Cale.”

  “Cale what?”

  He shrugged. “Just Cale.”

  “How many eggs do you figure you’ve snitched from my chicken house or the barn?”

  “Dunno.” Cale crunched his freckled nose. “Mebbe … nine?”

  Amos snorted. “Try again.”

  The boy ducked his head. “Prob’ly a good dozen an’ a half.”

  “Sounds closer.” Amos pretended to think deeply, jutting out his chin and stroking his night’s growth of prickly whiskers. “That means you owe me roughly thirty cents.”

  Cale bolted to his feet. “I don’t got any money, mister.”

  Amos didn’t figure the boy did or he wouldn’t have been stealing food. “How are you going to pay me back for the eggs you stole?”

  In slow, deliberate motions the boy turned his back on Amos and began removing his ragtag shirt. “Guess you can take it out o’ my hide, way the farmer up yonder done.” He balled the shirt in one hand and bent over slightly to rest his palms on his knees. “Just hurry an’ get it over with, huh?”

  Amos froze in place, horrified not only by the inches-wide welts striping the boy’s narrow back but his resigned expectation of another harsh punishment. His throat tightened, and his words pushed out low and grating. “Put your shirt on. Looks to me like the farmer took his due for both of us.”

  Cale looked over his shoulder at Amos. “You ain’t gonna whale on me?”

  Amos turned toward the house. “Nope.”

  “But what about them eggs I stole?” Panic filled the child’s voice. He scampered over to Amos and trailed him across the yard. “You gonna give me over to the sheriff?”

  Should he? The boy’s hunger, his thieving, his reluctance to share his last name all pointed to him being a runaway. He stopped at the edge of his porch and looked down at the boy, who gazed upward with wide, pleading eyes.

  “How old are you, Cale?”

  The boy squared his shoulders and stuck out his scrawny chest. “Thirteen an’ a half.”

  Amos raised one eyebrow. “Try again.”

  Cale grimaced. “I’ll be nine come October.”

  As Amos had suspected, the boy wasn’t old enough to be out on his own, and if he kept taking things that didn’t belong to him, somebody might do more than take a strap to him—they might aim a rifle at him. He’d better take him in to the sheriff. But first … “How many eggs does a boy your age generally eat for breakfast?”

  Cale’s eyes grew so round they looked like they might pop from his head. “Two. Sometimes three.”

  Amos waved his hand toward the barn. “Well, you know where I keep ’em.”

  “Honest, mister?”

  “I don’t say anything I don’t mean. Bring in three for you and three for me.” He’d have fewer to sell, but it was worth the lost ten cents to see the boy’s dirty face light with joy.

  Cale took off at a run for the barn, and the two pups chased after him.

  “Cale!”

  The boy skidded to a halt and spun to look at Amos. So did the puppies.

  “After we eat, you’ll help with chores. It’ll pay for your breakfast.”

  “Sure thing, mister. You can use the help. I been watchin’, an’ you got a powerful bad limp.” Cale shot off for the barn with the pups yipping at his heels.

  Amos went on inside, shaking his head at the boy’s candor. He dressed, and then he stoked the stove and readied a pan for frying the eggs. He didn’t have any salt pork, but he could make up some baking-soda biscuits. He might as well let the boy get his stomach filled before he hauled him to the sheriff.

  From outside, a pup barked and a child’s giggle rose. Amos smiled. It’d be good to have some company this morning.

  Amos

  Amos stared in amazement as Cale dug into his breakfast. The boy’s nose hovered an inch above his plate. His fork moved so rapidly between the tin plate and his mouth that it reminded Amos of a hummingbird’s wings. He must be swallowing the fluffy chunks of egg whole. If he didn’t slow down, he might choke.

  Amos reached across the table and tapped the top of Cale’s head. The boy paused, lifting his head just enough to peek at Amos through the heavy fall of his bangs. Amos pinned a warning frown on his face. “Not so fast there.” He added, more gently, “You don’t have to worry. I won’t take your plate away.”

  “Sorry, mister,” Cale mumbled around a mouthful of eggs. “Just tastes so good I can’t hardly stand it.”

  His appetite gone, Amos pushed his plate aside and watched Cale clean up his own plate and then unashamedly dive into the food remaining on Amos’s plate. Apparently his thievery hadn’t quelled his hunger. How long had the boy been scrounging on his own? From the looks of his dirty clothes, matted hair, and grime-encrusted fingernails, he hadn’t been cared for in a long while. Before Amos took him to town, he’d plunk him in the washtub for a good scrubbing.

  When he’d finally finished, Cale swiped his grubby arm across his mouth, leaned back in the chair, and let loose a man-sized belch. “That was real good, mister.”

  Amos’s ma would have had a few words about his manners, but Amos decided to let it go. “You get your fill?”

  Cale patted his stomach, which looked round and taut beneath his stained shirt front. “Yup.”

  “Then let’s see to those chores.”

  Amos headed outside with Cale shadowing him. While they ambled across the yard to the well, Amos said, “Where’s home for you, Cale?”

  “Don’t got one.”

  He spoke so brightly that Amos drew back in confusion.

  Cale dropped the bucket over the edge and lowered the crank. “Used to live in New York. Me an’ my brother … we lived there.”

  Amos stood aside and allowed Cale to bring up the bucket, then carry it across the yard, waddling a bit beneath its weight, to the watering pans. As he worked, the boy chattered on as if he’d known Amos forever.


  “Didn’t have a bad life, really, just him an’ me. But then he took sick with a fever an’ died, an’ some people—a preacher an’ his wife—put me on a train. They said I’d come to ruination if I kept up my stealin’ an’ such. So they sent me an’ a bunch o’ other kids who was livin’ on the streets, too, to Kansas. Some people north of a town called McPherson took me in, but I run off from there about a couple weeks or so ago. They was too much like that farmer up the road.”

  Amos cringed, the image of Cale’s welted back imprinted in his memory. Little wonder he hadn’t stayed with the folks in McPherson.

  Cale headed for the barn. Curious to see what he’d do, Amos followed him. While Cale retrieved the egg basket and then sauntered to the chicken house, he continued his story. “So I been travelin’ the roads, tryin’ to find a place like New York. Easier to sneak off with food an’ such in a big city. An’ even if you do get caught, nobody whales on ya ’cause there’s lotsa places a fella can hide.”

  He plucked an egg from beneath the belly of a plump hen, then jumped back when the hen fluttered from the roost and clucked in annoyance. He sent a glance at Amos as he sidestepped around the crabby hen. “Where’s the closest big city in Kansas?”

  Amos took the basket from the boy and limped along the line of roosting boxes, removing eggs as he went. “Kansas doesn’t have any cities as big as New York.” And he wouldn’t direct Cale to one, even if it existed. A boy needed more than the kind of life he’d described.

  Cale trailed Amos, lifting chickens from their roosts and shooing them out the door into the yard. “Hmm … Well, it’ll take me a while to get all the way back to New York City, but I guess that’s where I’ll be goin’. Be lonely without my brother, but …” He must have run out of words, because he hung his head and fell silent.

  Amos finished gathering the eggs, then curled his hand over Cale’s shoulder. Together they left the chicken house and walked between the foraging chickens to the barn, where Amos washed the eggs in the water trough. Cale wiped them dry on his shirt front, then placed them carefully in the wagon, tucking straw between them as protection.

  When they’d completed the task, Cale hunkered down and picked at the broken nail on his big toe. “Did I do enough to pay for my breakfast, or do you want me to feed the chicks an’ rake the barn, too?”

  Amos shook his head in amazement. Cale must have been watching him for days to know the order of his morning chores. “You rake the barn while I feed the chicks. Do a thorough job now—no shirking.”

  “All right, mister.”

  Trusting Cale to do as he’d been told, Amos turned his attention to the half-grown chicks. Although the boy had earned his breakfast, he might give him another job when he finished the barn. He had some things to think through, and he needed to keep Cale around until he’d made up his mind.

  Dinah

  Dinah was in the middle of stripping a bed when a beckon-me bell jangled from the next room. She darted out into the hallway and peeked through the open doorway. A well-dressed woman sat at the dressing table, scowling at her reflection in the oval mirror. On the bed behind her, it appeared a trunk had burst its seams and spewed its contents. Dinah tapped on the doorframe, and the woman gestured her in.

  “Thank goodness you’ve come. I’m in a dreadful spot.”

  “Are you feeling poorly, ma’am?” Dinah hadn’t yet needed to fetch a doctor for a guest, but she knew where to find the local physician.

  The woman pursed her lips and shot a frown at Dinah. “Do I look ill to you, young lady? Of course I am quite well. But, oh, my hair …” She touched the dark-brown tresses, which she’d brushed into a loose pouf. “It’s all falling down because my combs broke when I took them out last night. My maid ordinarily performs my hairdressing tasks, but I left her home for this journey. Now I regret the decision.”

  Dinah wasn’t sure what to do, so she offered a meek, “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  The woman huffed. “I’m not seeking an apology. I must depart shortly after noon, and it is imperative I board the train without my hair straggling around my face.” She withdrew two silver coins from the depths of a velvet reticule and pressed them into Dinah’s hand. “I need a pair of large hair combs. I prefer those with embellishments, but I surmise serviceable is all that will be available in this small town.” She released a dramatic sigh. “I shall have to make do.”

  “But, ma’am …” Dinah held out the money as if it were a snake that might bite her. “I’m cleaning rooms. I can’t—”

  “When I checked in yesterday evening, the desk clerk told me if I had need of anything, I was to ring this bell and my wishes would be promptly met.” The woman lifted her chin and speared Dinah with a glowering look. “Am I to tell the manager that you refused?”

  “Of course not, ma’am.” Dinah dropped the coins into the pocket of her apron and skittered for the door. “I’ll go after those combs right away.”

  “Be quick about it. My train leaves in less than two hours, and I will need you to pack my trunk when you return.”

  Dinah paused for a moment, gazing in dismay at the assortment of items covering the bed. It would take an hour to fold and pack everything even if Ruthie helped.

  “Miss, why are you dallying?” The woman’s strident voice rose. “Go now!”

  Dinah went.

  As she clattered down the porch stairs and trotted past the gardens, she decided the most likely place to find hair combs was Graham and Tucker Dry Goods. So she headed for the ornate limestone building on Main Street. The coins in her pocket bounced together as she walked, seeming to chide her to hurry, hurry. By the time she reached the store, she was panting from exertion and sweat dribbled down her temples. The wind had tossed handfuls of dust at her, leaving gritty smears on her apron that refused to leave, no matter how many times she swatted them. So she’d need to change uniforms before returning to duty.

  Stifling a growl of frustration, Dinah threw the door open and charged into the store. “Excuse me,” she called to the clerk, who was waiting on a man and his son. “Where would I find hair combs?”

  The man turned, and to Dinah’s surprise she found herself being gifted with one of Mr. Ackerman’s friendly smiles. Her heart fluttered at the genuine delight shining on his handsome, square face.

  The boy poked Mr. Ackerman on the elbow, then pointed at Dinah. “Who’s that?” He wore a blue plaid shirt and tan britches bearing crease marks from their time on the shelf. Black-and-brown-striped suspenders held up his pants, which were rolled twice at the cuff, and shiny brown lace-up boots covered his feet. Apparently the two had just completed a successful shopping excursion.

  Mr. Ackerman grinned down at the boy. “Are you going to make me introduce you to every person we encounter? You’ve already met the grocer, the barber, and the store clerk here. Will you remember all the names?”

  “Mr. Root, Mr. Cooper, an’ Mr. Sellers,” the boy recited. “Now, who’s she?”

  Mr. Ackerman put his large hand on the back of the boy’s head and propelled him toward Dinah. “Miss Hubley, please meet Cale. Cale, this is Miss Hubley.” He leaned down and whispered in Cale’s ear, “Use your manners.”

  The boy stuck out his hand and lifted his chin. “Nice to meetcha, Miss Hubley.”

  Dinah gave Cale’s hand a quick shake. Her insides trembled, the need to complete her errand and return to the hotel making her fidgety. Or perhaps standing beneath Mr. Ackerman’s kind smile caused her discomfiture. Around the men at the Yellow Parrot, she had always been filled with the desperate need to escape. With Mr. Ackerman she also wanted to run, but not as much from him as from herself. Which was even more disconcerting.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too.” She put her hand in her pocket and encountered the coins. Reminded of her purpose for entering the store, she started to move away.

  “Miss Hubley, may I ask … Did Miss Mead tell you …”

  He didn’t need to complete the question. Dinah nodded.<
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  “Good. So will you …”

  She’d shed tears last night after refusing Ruthie’s request for her to attend services again. She battled tears now, looking into his hopeful face. But she shook her head.

  His brow pinched into furrows. “Why? Didn’t Miss Mead explain—”

  “I came to make a purchase for a guest. I have to get back.” Besides, she was in her uniform, acting as a representative of Mr. Harvey’s Clifton Hotel. If someone reported her for chatting with Mr. Ackerman while she was on duty, she could be reprimanded, perhaps even let go. Dinah inched in the direction of the counter. “I can’t talk.” The disappointment crossing Mr. Ackerman’s face pierced her, but she had to be firm. With him. With herself.

  He offered a slow nod. “We won’t keep you, then.”

  Dinah scurried the final few feet to the counter and gasped out, “Hair combs?” The clerk pointed, and she darted toward the shelf he’d indicated. As she rounded the corner, she heard Mr. Ackerman call, “I hope to see you at service on Sunday, Miss Hubley.” She didn’t respond.

  She quickly located a pair of tortoiseshell combs that looked similar in size to the broken ones lying on the dressing table at the hotel room. Although she needed to hurry back, she stayed hidden behind the tall shelves, listening while Mr. Ackerman paid the clerk. The door to the cash register slammed, and still she waited until she heard Mr. Ackerman’s distinctive footsteps cross the floor and the screen door slap into its frame. Assured he’d gone, she hustled from her hiding spot, paid for the combs, then dashed onto the boardwalk.

  Without conscious thought, she scanned the street for a glimpse of Mr. Ackerman. She spotted him up the block, ushering the little boy named Cale into the brick building that served as the city offices. Lifting her skirt a little, she took off at a trot, weaving past other morning shoppers. When she passed the city offices, she couldn’t resist sending a glance through the plate-glass window. Mr. Ackerman had his hand on Cale’s shoulder, and the sheriff seemed to be questioning the boy.