There was a deep sigh. “Ah guess Ah shud ’ave tole ya this b’fur, David, but when we first went in ta that meetin’, Ah was reddy ta tell Brother Miller that we wud naw be goin’ ta America wit ’em after awl. It dinna matter ’ow mooch we needed ta go. What we were doin’ was dead wrong. But when ’e began ta spek . . . Ah dunno. Ah joost never felt anythin’ lek that b’fur.”
“So you’re saying . . .” David took a quick breath. He had been deeply touched by his father’s emotion, and didn’t want in any way to make him feel like he was rejecting it, but . . . “So you’re saying that you were converted that night?”
“Naw,” came the quick reply. “Naw at awl. Ah joost . . . it was joost e’nuff ta mek me wanna ’ear more.” And now there was shame in his eyes. “An’ it was joost e’nuff ta mek me decide per’aps it wud naw be so terrible if we became Mormons an’ came wit ’em ta America.”
David didn’t know what to say. After almost a full minute, he stood up. “I’m real tired, Dad, and I’ve got to leave early in the morning. Thank you for telling me that. I truly did not know.”
“Ah be sayin’ one more thing, David, then Ah be leavin’ ya alone.”
David audibly sighed, but didn’t move.
“At furst, Ah went ta church b’cuz Ah was feelin’ guilty. And then . . .” He stopped, searching for words. “Aw, David, Ah ’ad naw idee, naw idee at awl.”
“No idea about what?”
“Aboot what this awl meant.”
“The Mormon Church, you mean?”
“Naw. The gospel. Aboot ’ow mooch thare be ta learn. Aboot ’ow mooch our ’Eavenly Father wants us ta be ’appy. ’Ow many blessin’s ’E ’as ta give us.”
Embarrassed, he looked away. “That be awl Ah ’ave ta say ta ya, Son. Thank ya fur naw laughin’ at yur ole Dahd. Ah guess as Ah git older, Ah be gittin’ too sen’imen’al.”
David went to him and put his arms around him. “I luv ya, Dahd,” he said. “I’m sorry that I have to go again so soon.”
John said nothing in reply, just held him tightly for a long time.
Chapter 18
Saturday, August 24, 1878
When David approached the outskirts of Cedar City ten days later, he was ready for a bath. It was hot—in the high nineties, at least—and the air was perfectly still. The steady plop-plop of Tillie’s hooves left little puffs of dust hanging in the air, adding in their own small way to the thick summer haze. To the east, a range of hills shimmered in the heat.
When he had come south to work the telegraph line a few years before, it had been October. The air had been clear and crisp then, with the promise of snow. He still remembered how the sight of those hills had impressed him: the brilliant red soil sprinkled generously with the deep, rich green of the junipers—or cedar trees, as most people called them—and the snowcapped mountains behind them. Today, however, those same hills seemed lifeless and dull. He heard a far-off “caw, caw.” Looking up, he saw two crows circling lazily high above him.
Though he had passed through numerous settlements on his way south, he had chosen to sleep in the open except for one time when he had taken refuge in a barn to escape an evening thundershower. The cost of hotels and boardinghouses came out of his pocket, and therefore took money out of his “ranch fund.” Tonight, he would make an exception to that rule. Starting Monday, board and room would be included in his salary, but tonight, ranch fund or not, he was going to get himself a hot bath, a good meal, and a soft bed, in that order. But first, he had to find the postmaster and let him know he had arrived.
Cedar City was one of the anchor points on the “Mormon Corridor” established by Brigham Young shortly after bringing his people to the Great Basin. He had created a series of settlements between Salt Lake City and San Bernardino, California—including Las Vegas in Nevada Territory—to provide an alternate route to California that avoided the High Sierras and Donner Pass. Cedar City, like Coalville, had grown significantly since David had last been here. Looking out across the town now, he estimated its population to be somewhere in the vicinity of a thousand. But he expected he would find the post office on Main Street.
The post office was on Main Street, but to David’s surprise, it was housed in one end of the McKenna House (subtitled “Hotel and Dining Room”). The hotel was impressive. It had a two-story central block, with smaller wings on both ends. Made of brick laid on a stone foundation, it had a spacious veranda across the front of it, with two large glass doors leading into the main lobby. The south wing had a separate entrance, and the words Post Office were posted over the door. A large covered carriage was pulled up at the front of the hotel, disgorging ten or twelve passengers into the building. The driver and his helper were up on top, tossing down suitcases, carpetbags, and valises to a teenaged boy waiting below.
David pulled Tillie up to the rail in front of the post office. He swung down, tied her to the rail, then patted her on the shoulder. “Be back in a second, old girl. Then we’ll get you a manger full of hay and a bucket of oats and you can rest for a while.” As he stepped up onto the veranda, he removed his hat, combed his fingers through his damp hair, then slapped the worst of the trail dust off his shirt and pants. Replacing his hat, he opened the door and stepped inside.
He stopped, letting his eyes adjust for a moment to the dimmer light. The room was divided off from the main hotel lobby by a partition and occupied the full width of the building. Three chest-high writing tables stood along the wall to his left. The far wall was filled with a full-length counter. Behind it were rows of shelves and one section with crosshatched pigeonholes. Many of those contained letters or newspapers. On the door of a workroom, a neatly painted sign showed various rates for letters and parcels based on distance.
Just then, a woman stepped out. “Good afternoon,” she said. “May I help you?”
David swept off his hat without thinking. She was young—probably seventeen or eighteen. She was dressed in a long, full skirt, beige in color, and wore a pale blue blouse with long sleeves puffed at the shoulder but tight at the wrist. It emphasized the slenderness of her waist and made her look taller than she was. Probably five foot two or three, he guessed. But it was her hair that arrested his gaze. It was honey-blonde and cascaded down her back in long, soft curls. In the dimmer light he couldn’t see the color of her eyes but guessed they were a light blue. She was, without question, one of the most comely women he had met in a very long time.
Her head cocked to one side. She gave him a quizzical look. “May I help you, sir?”
He moved forward, wanting a better look. “Well now,” he said, flashing his most boyish grin, “aren’t you about the prettiest thing a man ever laid eyes on.”
In quick flashes her face registered surprise, then pleasure, then cool mockery. “Well now,” she mimicked, “aren’t you one for kissing the Blarney stone?”p
He laughed aloud. “What? Ahre ya Ireesh noow, mee gurl?” he said, grandly rolling his r’s.
That did it. The smile came stealing back. “My father was born in the Emerald Isle, near Limerick Town. He’s warned me about handsome young men who are full of the blarney.”
He looked up at the ceiling, speaking to an unseen audience, still in a rich Irish brogue. “Didya ’ear that, laddies? The bonnie wee lass called me an ’andsome young man.”
She grimaced. “Are there really girls empty-headed enough to find that line irresistible?”
He couldn’t turn away from her eyes. They were neither green nor blue but grey, pale as an overcast sky, but flecked with tiny spots of light brown around the iris. Finally, her question registered. “What would you say if I told you that you were the first girl I’ve ever said that to?”
She gave a short hoot of derision. “Sir, I would say you have either a very poor memory or a habit of playing somewhat loosely with the truth.”
He was greatly enjoying the repartee. “I confess that, while my memory may fail me on rare occasions, I can say with the utmost sincerit
y that never in all my life have those words been uttered more honestly, or with more heartfelt feeling. You are indeed the prettiest girl I have seen in a long, long time.”
That took her completely aback, and her cheeks instantly colored. Before she could recover, he stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m David Draper. I’m your new mail rider.”
“Oh!” That flustered her even more. “Really?”
He reached out, took her hand, shook it quickly, then let it drop again. “The proper response to that is, ‘Hello, David Draper. I’m pleased to meet you. My name is . . .”
“Molly Jean McKenna,” she said, finally smiling again. “And I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Draper.”
“Molly?” he exclaimed. “Why, of course it’s Molly. It couldn’t have been anything else.” He stepped back, still smiling at her. “So, father or uncle?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We’re in the McKenna House. Father or uncle?”
“Oh. That’s my father.”
“I see. And where might I find the postmaster to let him know that I’m here?”
She was recovering quickly. “He’s not here now. Won’t be back until four.” She smiled, looking secretly amused about something.
He nodded. “Well, Miss Molly McKenna, I shall go and arrange lodging for myself at the board and room I passed a street or two back. There I shall take a bath, and—” he rubbed at the stubble on his chin—“shave so you can see how truly handsome I am.”
She laughed merrily. “You are shameless, Mr. Draper,” she said, shaking her head.
“Guilty as charged,” he said with a jaunty grin, pleased to note that beneath the cool and calm demeanor, she was enjoying this interchange as much as he was. “Would you be so kind as to let the postmaster know I shall be here at four o’clock?”
“I shall,” she said, merriment literally dancing in her eyes now. “He keeps an office just off the hotel lobby. Inquire there when you return.”
He replaced his hat, bowed deeply, and started for the door. “Until later then, Miss Molly.”
He decided Tillie’s needs came first. He asked a man outside the post office how to find the livery stable and was directed one block west. It was a large red barn set back from the street, with sheds and a spacious corral in back. The corral held several horses. David saw a large sign painted in white letters just below the barn’s hayloft: McKenna & Son, Livery. He studied it for a moment. So Molly McKenna was the daughter of one of Cedar City’s more prominent citizens. Did that make a difference to him? Probably not, but it was something to keep in mind.
He rode Tillie through the large doors and into the coolness of the barn. He pulled up and looked around. “Hello!” he called. Nothing. He got down and, leading Tillie by the reins, went deeper into the dark interior. “Anyone here?”
Then he saw a paper tacked to one of the wooden posts supporting the loft. A pencil hung on a string beside it. He walked over and read the block letters: BACK IN HALF AN HOUR. HELP YOURSELF TO WHATEVER YOU NEED. LEAVE YOUR NAME AND WE’LL SETTLE UP LATER. A. M.
There were several empty stalls. He led Tillie to the nearest one and unsaddled her. Finding a currycomb and brushes, he brushed her down, then got her a bucket of oats. By then, a quarter of an hour had passed, and there was still no sign of a.m. He went to the paper, took the pencil, and scribbled: This is my horse. Staying at the boardinghouse. Back after five. Thanks. David D.
As he gave the mare one last pat and started for the door, he heard the sound of voices coming from behind the barn. He turned on his heel and headed in that direction. The back double doors were open about two feet and he slipped through them, blinking in the sunlight.
What he saw was not the livery man, but three boys over behind the tack shed. Disappointed, he started to turn back, but something about the scene arrested him. One boy was backed up against the wall of the shed. He was the shortest of the three, a towhead with short-cropped hair and deep brown eyes. He wore a pullover striped shirt, faded jeans, and scuffed shoes. He stood stiffly, and something about his stance told David that he was frightened. The other two boys were clearly older, the biggest of them a full head taller than the towhead. They stood in front of him, blocking any escape he might seek.
Curious now, David moved slowly toward them, keeping the corral fence between him and them and placing his feet carefully so as not to make any noise. He stopped behind the corner post, just ten or fifteen feet to one side. None of the three saw him or heard him.
From this position, he could see a large circle in the dirt with several marbles on the ground. He also saw that the small boy held a leather sack bulging with more marbles. His eyes were darting nervously between the two boys. Yet he was standing his ground.
“Give us the rest of our marbles, Pajamas.” It came from the taller of the two boys. He held his hand out, motioning with his fingers for the smaller boy to hand over the pouch.
Pajamas? David had heard a lot of insults kids hurled at each other, but this was a new one.
“They’re not your marbles,” the smaller boy said. He stepped forward and bent down to pick up the remaining marbles from the ground. The taller boy moved quickly, sticking out his foot. He stepped on a marble and the younger boy’s fingers at the same time.
“Ow!” The towhead pulled free and straightened, backing away a step, holding his hand.
“What’s the matter, P.J.?” the taller boy jeered. “Don’tcha want this marble? Thank you very much.” He picked it up and put it in his pocket. He quickly scooped up the others as well, then held out his hand. “Now gimme the rest of them.” The other boy moved up beside him.
The marble owner jutted out his chin, frightened but determined. “Give me back my marbles, Sammy.”
David had to smile. He liked the feisty look on this kid’s face. He wasn’t backing down, even though he was outnumbered two to one and outweighed by double or more.
“Give me my marbles back, Sammy,” Sammy mimicked in a singsong voice. He turned to his friend. “How would you like a name like P.J.?” he sneered. Then in the same singsong voice, “Patrick Joseph, what a name. Call him P.J., it’s the same. Pajamas. Pajamas. Pajamas.”
Understanding the nickname now, David realized this little chant hadn’t been made up on the spot, nor was it the first time this little scrapper had heard it.
They started again. “Patrick Joseph, what a name.” Then, quick as a snake, Sammy’s hand shot out and snatched the sack of marbles from Patrick’s hand.
“They’re mine,” Patrick exclaimed in a quavering voice, but he didn’t try to take them back.
Sammy the bully held them just out of his reach. “Then come and get ’em!”
Patrick was fast, but Sammy was faster. He jerked the bag away just as Patrick’s fingers touched it. Then Sammy leaned in and gave Patrick a hard shove with his free hand. “Come on, little boy. Come and get it.” He gave him another shove. The second boy moved in and shoved him in the other direction.
“Hey!” David yelled, stepping out. All three boys were startled, and Sammy and his companion started backing away. David cut them off. “No, you don’t. Stay right there.”
He herded them back over to the circle. The relief on Patrick’s face was dramatic. He also looked like he was near tears. “What’s going on here?” David asked.
“They took my marbles,” Patrick said.
“Did not!” Sammy cried. “They’re ours. We left them here earlier. He stole ’em from us.”
David turned. “That true, son?”
He shook his head. “He’s lying.”
The other boy took a step forward, raising his fists. “You calling me a liar?”
“Liar!” Patrick said hotly, his chin jutting out.
David was trying not to laugh. Banty roosters, just like him and Sean Williams. He turned to the two bigger boys. “Ain’t right, two of you picking on him, seein’ how you’re both bigger.” David turned to Patrick. “Are the marbles really yours, so
n?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you take ’em back?”
That startled him, and David saw Sammy stiffen too. Patrick’s eyes were large, fearful.
“I’ll keep the other one out of it,” David went on softly, “so it’ll be just you and Sammy.”
“I . . .” Patrick fell back a step, dismay twisting his face.
“Scaredy-cat,” Sammy taunted.
David went down on one knee in front of Patrick. “Listen to me, son. I can make them give you your marbles back. And I’ll do that if you want me to. But that won’t end it. They’ll catch you another day, when no one’s around. And they’ll take ’em back. You want that?”
He shook his head, his jaw setting.
Out of the corner of one eye, David saw that the two boys were starting to edge away. He shot them a hard look and they stopped instantly. “So, do you want your marbles or not?”
“Patrick Joseph!” The cry from behind spun all of them around. A young, dark-haired woman wearing a short-sleeved dress of simple cotton was bearing down on them. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her face was brown from the sun. Fire was dancing in her eyes, which were so dark brown they looked almost black. “What is going on here?” She started towards them, walking swiftly.
“Stay out of this, ma’am,” David called. “They’re just settling a couple of issues here.”
She shot him a frosty look, then rushed forward. David stepped in front of her, blocking her way. When she went to step around him, he matched her step for step. “Leave it be,” he said.
“Get out of my way!” she hissed.
“They’ve gotta settle this on their own,” he said. “Stay out of it.”
“He’s my brother,” she shouted. “You get out of my way.”
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