by Savanna Sage
“What dues?” thirteen-year-old Adam asked.
“No matter how far I walked toward home after the war, the screaming, shooting, stench, and terror of battle kept pace with me,” Papa said, caressing Punch’s head. “Then I came upon this little puppy lying in the bushes by the road with an injured leg, as though he’d been run over by a wagon. As soon as I picked him up, the terrible sounds faded from my mind, pushed out by this chance to save a creature who desperately needed help. As I focused on feeding him, wrapping his leg the best I knew how, and showing him love, the war went away from me.
“We surprised Coretta, didn’t we, little man?” Roland gently slid Punch’s ears through his fingers. The dog sighed and closed his eyes. “I told her how Punch helped me, and she said, ‘Well, then bring him in.’
“After the war, I needed a job, and the railroad was hiring, so Punch went with me to lay track. The train people didn’t much want a dog along, but they wanted the man power. When they found out we were a team, they let me keep him with me.”
Roland bent and touched his forehead to the dog’s. Punch’s tail swished back and forth. “He’ll be alright now,” Papa said.
Lifting his head, he looked at Adam. “You have the dragon?”
Adam patted his shirt.
Roland nodded. “That’s why you sent two boys to the ground for Punch. That’s a protector, that dragon is.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Ask the Chinaman.”
Accustomed to his father’s unusual ways, Adam asked, “What Chinaman?”
“The one that saved Punch. There weren’t many dogs on the railroad, wasn’t a place for sitting with a dog on your lap of an evening. It was rough, like war.” Roland tightened his arms around Punch, and the dog yipped. Roland immediately relaxed his hold and gently rubbed a finger between the dog’s ears. “Sorry, boy.”
When Roland looked at his son, his eyes clouded with confusion. “One thing I could never figure out was why the white men hated Chinese. They’d traveled far from home, worked hard laying track the same as us, and got less pay, too. But the whites were always talking them down, trying to make things harder for them.
“One day I couldn’t find Punch.” Roland’s voice raised. “I looked everywhere, I tell you, absolutely everywhere. The whites made fun of me, called me Dog Man and barked as I stuck my head under all the train cars and searched through every single one of them.
“In the last car, a skinny guy told me, ‘If yer dog’s over at the China camp, he’s inna stew pot, mark m’ words.”
“I dashed outside, running as hard as I could toward the Chinese camp. One fellow in white pajamas broke free from the rest. He walked toward me with an uncertain smile, carrying something in his arms. When I saw that he held Punch, I yelled, ‘Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!’ and took Punch from him.”
Roland’s eyebrows went up. “Then he bowed to me. Bowed, Adam, like I was a king or something. I bowed back to him, me and Punch. Twice. I would have laid on the ground, I was so happy to have my dog back.
“The Chinaman stared at me like I’d turned green. I bowed again. Then one side of his mouth turned up just the littlest bit, and he said in his funny China voice, ‘I see you with dog. I know you like verra much. I had bird, ride all places on arm.’ He meant his shoulder, because that’s what he patted. “I miss bird, but it far, far away.’ He waved his arm behind him. ‘You miss dog, so I bring you.’
“I bowed again, because if I tried to talk, I would’ve bawled. Then I turned and went back to my own camp, full of men who looked more like me, and should have been my friends.
“One morning not long after, I overheard plans to set off an explosive as soon as the Chinese reached the section where it was set to clear out a flat space for more track. The intention was to blow some of the Chinese up and claim it was an accident. There was no good reason for it.” Roland shuddered. “None at all.
“So I left my work station and hurried toward the Chinese workers. ‘Run!’ I called. ‘Explosion!’
The same man who returned Punch broke from the group of working Chinese and walked toward me, talking, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. He’d nearly reached me when movement caught the edge of my eye. The men were triggering the explosion.
“I jumped forward to get between the Chinaman and the white men, and that’s when the explosion smacked into me, louder than a cannon blast. The force blew me into the Chinaman, knocking him over. He scrambled out from under me and started beating on me. I couldn’t figure out why until I smelled the burning. My pants were on fire, and he beat out the flames. My enemy saved me.
“Kneeling at my side, he pushed that dragon coin in my hand. ‘Keep,’ he said. ‘Is bridge. You. Me. Bridge. Keep alway. I bring reward you saving my life.’
“I started to tell him that having Punch was reward enough, but he ran off, his long pigtail bouncing against his back. When I could finally hear men’s voices sounding closer through the ringing in my ears, I didn’t blame him for running.
“The guys I worked with said I was a lunatic, that I should be sent to an asylum. They were my enemies. In the end they gave me a twenty dollar gold piece and shipped me home to Coretta. She was good to bring me back to health. She just didn’t understand about the dragon.”
Adam reached for the string around his neck. “You should keep this, Papa. The Chinaman gave it to you.”
“No.” Roland’s voice was unusually sharp. “You keep it for me now. You know about the bridge, friends and enemies, and protecting.”
Adam dropped his hands, leaving the string in place around his neck.
As if the coin had some Asian fairy tale power, Adam found more and more causes to fight for. While defending the helpless, he always won.
It was a mercy that Papa died before Punch, who followed his master to the grave a week later.
Adam kept on fighting, not knowing until Spud came along that he could actually make money from hitting people. Not knowing until Kansas that there was a girl like Cinderella who sparked a feeling in his heart like none he’d ever felt before.
Chapter 7
There had to be a way out of this mad house. With the fervor of a child’s single breath blowing white dandelion seeds free to make a wish come true, Stella wished with all her heart that she could become the first ever Hugoton Smasher and pound her way out of here. No wonder Aunt Ellis had gone visiting as much as she had, no wonder Stella hadn’t seen her for a year. Is that how long it was since she’d seen Franklin, too? Stella stared at the ceiling of her cousin’s room, edged with a decorative border surrounding a single bare light bulb hanging from a thick electric cord in the dim room. Uncle Owen’s news of cousin Emily gave Stella an idea. Delphia had escaped her home by marrying and moving far away. It appeared that Franklin had left home, too, along with Aunt Ellis. Emily had successfully run away from home, and hadn’t been found, at least not by Uncle Owen.
Stella would run away, too.
She stared hard out the window at the flat land, looking strange in the dusk. Then she grabbed the window frame and pushed with all her might. It was solid, as if locked or painted shut. Stella turned on Franklin’s light and examined the wooden frame. The lock was not engaged. She pushed again, but the window remained stubbornly in place.
Stella paced about the room, looking for something to break the glass. She was hesitant, though. The sound would surely draw Uncle Owen. Would she have enough time to escape? Then her eyes focused on a folded straight razor lying beside an old washbasin. Urgency made her pick up the razor and test the edge with her thumb. There was a small nick in it, but it was serviceable.
Where was her uncle right now? Would he be able to hear and guess what she was doing?
After glancing out the window at the darkness blotting out the landscape, she slid the nicked blade across the seam where the windowpane pressed against the sill. When the thin blade wobbled, she reduced the pressure for fear it might break, then slid the
razor along the seam until she’d gone all the way around. If this didn’t work, she would kick out the glass and run, hoping to get away before Uncle Owen could reach the room and unlock the door. She pushed up on the window as hard as she could.
It didn’t open, but there was a slight give. Stella attacked the seam with the razor again, working all around the window once more, concentrating on stubborn sections. The night was full dark when she pushed up on the window frame yet again. With a snap, it scooted up a few inches. Air slipped into the room, the freshness of its green scent nearly making her dizzy. Stella pushed and thumped at the window until it finally rose as high as it could.
Then she heard Uncle Owen returning. Panicked, she pulled the window shut with a snap.
“What was that?” Uncle Owen called from the hallway.
“I… I knocked over a chair,” Stella replied, her fear making her voice defiant.
“Fits of temper will get you nowhere,” Uncle Owen said. “I’ve a mind to take back the food I brought. Are you hungry?”
Stella took a step toward the door. “Yes.”
“Are you calm now?”
Folding her hands into a tight knot of frustration, Stella replied, “Yes.”
After a moment’s silence, Uncle Owen said, “You don’t sound calm.”
“But I am!” Stella replied before realizing that she was shouting.
“That’s not a calm voice.”
Unsure of her ability to control it, Stella didn’t reply.
“One theory toward obtaining a calm mind is fasting,” Uncle Owen said. “Are you inclined to try it?”
“No!”
“I thought not. Young people are so undisciplined. Stand back from the door, please.”
Stella stepped back, expecting the door to open. Instead, she was surprised to see a sheet of paper slide underneath the door with a thin slice of bread on it.
“Is this all?” she asked.
The paper began to recede. “If you don’t want it…”
Stella darted forward and grabbed the bread just before the paper disappeared.
“Would you like another?”
“Yes. Please.”
Another thin slice of bread appeared beneath the door, and Stella took it without comment.
“There’s water for you in the pitcher on the nightstand,” Uncle Owen said. “If you are… indisposed, there is an old chamber pot beneath the bed. I found it prudent to leave it there for times I disciplined Franklin. You can thank his bad behavior for your convenience.”
Stella gasped. “You mean I am not even allowed the use of the bathroom?”
“Not unless you’ve had a change of heart.”
Stella clenched her fists, but kept her mouth closed.
“I didn’t think so. This will all work out for your good in the end,” he assured her.
“For my good?” Stella shouted. “It seems that you are making this all out to work for your good, not mine!”
“You must amend your attitude if you wish to make a good impression on your prospective husband,” Uncle Owen said. “If you can’t control your temperament, perhaps we will try the fasting solution. The good Lord went without food or water for forty days, to his betterment,”
“You would actually withhold food from me for so long?” Stella asked in horror.
“I trust you’ll recognize the benefits of the position I’m offering you before that much time has passed. Good night, Stella.”
As Uncle Owen’s footfalls faded away, Stella ate the bread faster than popriety allowed. As simple as it was, the nourishment was welcome. All she had to do was open the window, climb out, and get away.
But Uncle Owen’s ominous words made her pause. He seemed so determined to force an unwanted future on her that she was fairly certain he’d come looking for her. What she needed was a disguise.
Yanking open Franklin’s bureau drawers, she found some trousers and a couple of shirts he’d left behind. After hurrying to the door to listen in case Uncle Owen returned, Stella worked her way out of her dress and pulled on Franklin’s clothes, choosing a patterned shirt that would best conceal the swell of her breasts. As she pushed her hair back over her shoulders to get to the buttons on the shirt, she realized that her hair was a problem. Passing as a man would surely fail if her hair gave her away. The only solutions she could think of were to either stuff it under a hat, or cut it.
The memory of her father’s fingers touching her long hair while he told her princess stories made her decide to use a hat. Surely she would look as much like a man with her long hair folded under a hat as she would with her hair cut. It was the perfect disguise.
Digging through Franklin’s things again, she searched for what she needed, but like lost treasure, a hat eluded her. This just wouldn’t do. Turning to scan the room, Stella spied Franklin’s wardrobe. Opening the doors, she found a crumpled nightshirt at the bottom and a couple more shirts hanging up.
Where was a hat? She wasn’t picky. It didn’t have to be new. She would take any old hat.
Butt here wasn’t one. The night was passing, her chance to escape growing slimmer with each tick of the clock.
But how could she cut her princess hair off? The little mermaid’s sisters gave up their hair to help their little sister. Had the razor been left in Franklin’s room by some kind of magic in order to help Stella escape? She had to do what had to be done. Either become the third Mrs. Kemper for as long as he decided to let her live, or cut her hair to escape.
The Cabbage King would want her to be safe. He may not recognize his Cabbage Head anymore with short hair, but he would call her beautiful even if she were bald.
Gritting her teeth, Stella grabbed a handful of hair and raised the blade to it. She wouldn’t look like Papa’s Cabbage Head anymore, she’d look more like Peeled Onion Head. Could she really do it?
As if in answer, her stomach rumbled. Two thin pieces of bread were not a proper supper. Propelled by hunger and the thought of what would become of her if she remained Uncle Owen’s ward, Stella sawed at her hair. As the bottom length parted from the top, long strands fell over her hand like spider webs.
Uncle Owen had trapped her in a spider web, but she refused to be his fly. She had found a way to escape, but there was only so much time. Even when she got out of the house, if she didn’t get far enough away, and if he found her, he would bring her right back here. Or worse, take her directly to Mr. Kemper’s house.
With desperate determination, Stella kept cutting, telling herself her hair would grow back. Without a mirror to see in, there was a real chance she could miscalculate the distance, so she left a little space between her head and the razor. She wanted to keep her ears.
Even if she avoided losing an ear, a bleeding cut could delay her, even kill her if it was deep enough. That wasn’t the kind of escape she had planned. Even walking down the street with a bloody bandage around her head would surely draw unwanted attention.
When she was done, she felt her handiwork hanging around her head at various lengths, none longer than her shoulders, which made it longer overall than most men wore, unless you counted bearded beggars.
Should she try again? She figured she could get another inch or two off in most places without slicing off an ear.
But she had to get going.
When she returned the razor to the table, it slipped off the edge and fell to the floor. Stella bent to retrieve it and noticed a flash of yellow beneath the bed.
Falling to her knees, she took a closer look. The chipped ceramic chamber pot sat there, its lid askew, next to a straw boater hat.
With a little cry, Stella pulled the hat out. The brim was cracked, but the crown was intact. It was too late to fold her long hair beneath it, but she put the hat on anyway. Even though it was a bit big for her head, it gave her a more respectable appearance.
She found no men’s shoes in the room, but Franklin’s shoes wouldn’t have fit. Stella decided her brown leather ankle boots could pass f
or men’s shoes, if anyone even bothered looking at her feet.
She started to climb out the window, but when she glanced back into the room, long strands of dark hair lay on the floor like a dead animal next to her crumpled dress. She couldn't leave them there, or Uncle Owen would know to look for a short haired Stella without a dress. That couldn’t happen.
As Stella gathered her loose hair, she hoped her uncle would just give up on her and let her disappear like his wife and son had.
Then her heart went cold. They had disappeared. Aunt Ellis had visited family often in her later years at Hugoton, but what if she’d stopped coming back because she was dead? Uncle Owen didn’t have to do away with her himself. He could have paid someone else to take care of it.
Stop it. Uncle Owen was a hard man, but that didn’t make him a murderer.
With renewed determination, Stella turned off the light and climbed out the window, her dress looped around her neck, holding her shorn hair in one hand and the windowsill with the other. There wasn’t much of a drop to the ground from this first floor room. As her feet touched the earth, a distant train whistle sounded, giving her an idea to help her escape far, far away.
Chapter 8
The Salt Lake Smasher stood in the train aisle waiting for a plump woman in a purple dress to gather more parcels than she had arms for, but he wasn’t complaining. It was better than a jail cell. The judge wanted to make an example of someone, and the Salt Lake Smasher was the only fighter he had in custody. If one of the deputy sheriffs hadn’t been handing over a bet at ringside when the raid came in, Adam might still be looking at Colorado through bars. Acting as if he’d been there undercover, the deputy downplayed the fight, which helped clear the way to the Smasher’s freedom. Spud was waiting with train fare when Adam was released, and Adam didn’t ask how he’d gotten the money. He hadn’t argued about heading for Santa Fe and the fight Spud arranged for him there. Without him bringing in winnings for two months, the cupboards were bare.