A Sweetness to the Soul (17 page)

He didn’t raise his voice and he didn’t take my bait, so I actually heard what he said.

I had nothing to lose by letting him be helpful, except letting go of being right. Besides, Papa had said often enough that only a fool argues with a skunk, a cook, or a mule. And I had already argued most of my morning away.

“The big black one is Bessy,” I said, pointing. The man turned and walked back toward me. “The bay is Hard Times, and the one kicking up her heels is Jackson. The little one is Puddin’ Foot, though now that she’s full grown her feet actually look all right, don’t you think?” I didn’t wait for his response. “Pepperpot is standing off by himself. If we can get him, the others will follow. I’ll call him if you think that will help.”

He smiled at me then, a big, accepting smile and I saw his eyes drooped a bit, with a kind of swimming look before easing into crinkles. He flashed a line of straight teeth that looked even whiter in his sun-darkened face. He had thick, brown eyebrows, deep blue eyes, and a nose that had never been broken. I thought at the same
time, as I noticed his thin lips, that maybe he wasn’t as old as my father.

Pepperpot took some coaxing, but eventually we moved my mule into the pack mule’s territory, got a rope on him, and tied him up. The other mules followed suit seemingly both annoyed by the reptile pile stench and by the little dog who backed his way toward the pack mule. The mules nudged toward the dog until they were caught up, just as this savvy man knew they would be. We smiled at each other with each caught-up mule and had seemed to form a wary bond by the time the animals stood grazing near the tree acting like they never did have a better day.

“I’m heading toward The Dalles,” he said when we finished tying Puddin’ Foot. “I’d be happy to help string them toward where you’re headed. Nice animals.” He patted Puddin’s behind and dust puffed up.

We had walked back to the log where my cooking fire still smoldered, rubbed our hands in the dirt to clean them of the sweaty smell.

I said, “About being so rude earlier—”

“I accept,” he interrupted. “It’s a sign of good character to welcome help, when needed, and apologize when acknowledging the delay—”

“I wasn’t asking
your
forgiveness,” I said, cutting him off. His rightness annoyed me. I’d actually been going to comment on
his
rudeness: not introducing himself, talking to a girl in the middle of nowhere. “And I certainly don’t welcome your opinion,” I said. The man had the power to turn my temperament from kind to cross in seconds. “You’ve been helpful. Now you’d best be on your way.”

He stared for a moment as if considering a response. Then he turned in the dust, walked without talking to his mule, tied it to his horse. He checked his saddle, pulled up the cast iron loop serving as the weight, mounted and patted his lanky leg and the dog jumped up into his lap. He tipped his flat-topped hat at me. “It’s been chirk,” he said and smiled.

His sarcasm irritated me more because I knew he couldn’t have meant he’d had a pleasant time. He pressed the reins against his horse’s neck and rode off.

The last thing I saw was the little dog peeking his pointy ears around his master and panting his pink tongue at me in their departure.

Chirk! Not likely
. I felt righteously disappointed but not for long. There was always too much to do and I simply set to it.

Joseph said our first encounter stayed with him like a hangover, something he enjoyed getting to then wished would go away. He considered what he’d done to set me off as he rode north toward the big river, the Columbia. He talked to the kelpie about my volatile temperament and said he even commented about some poor soul marrying me someday and having to live with that sassy tongue forever. “Like dancing with a porcupine,” he told the kelpie. Still, the farther away from me he rode, the more he found himself chuckling, about my energy and grit, two qualities he found he appreciated but had never really expected to find in a very small girl he’d first mistaken as a boy.

I put out the fire, tied the mules to my rope, and climbed aboard Jackson, heading home, moving into a world that a summer with Sunmiet had pleasantly interrupted. Riding, I considered the stranger, thought about Sunmiet and Standing Tall, and remembered my last day at the river. Sunmiet and I had been relieved to learn that it was Bubbles who discovered the disaster first. A young man had slipped into the river. The ropes around his middle kept him alive though pounded by the surging water. Because she sat near the babies, Bubbles had an eagle’s-eye view of the scaffolding, had seen the young man fall. Bubbles’ bulk and surprising quickness saved him as she was the first to shout orders to others, then strain her arms on the rope, dragging him away from the sucking surf. It was Koosh who’d fallen, Standing Tall’s younger brother. Sunmiet’s intended reminded us that his words of warning had been wise, but then admitted: “One does not need to be a
nana
to be in
danger at the river.” Sunmiet had nodded her head once in agreement and told me later how good her insides felt to have him hint that she was right.

It was a feeling I understood, this wishing to be right, not the cause of something wrong.

I rode into the yard. Mama was having one of her days that began after the tragedy. So when I pulled up with the mules, I didn’t have the time or energy to relate my encounter with the stranger with either her or Papa. We both kept out of her way those days knowing nothing we could do or say would make it right. Even Baby George learned to sit on his bed sucking the ends of his fingers, shaking himself smaller with each slam of a spider and iron in mama’s kitchen. Our only hope was time or a visitor, someone from the outside whose presence seemed to warm Mama into her old charm that often lasted well after any visitor was gone. My stranger stopping by now would have been a blessing and I would not have found him rude in the least.

No stranger came by and so I related the encounter to no one, not even my friend Sunmiet, at least until much later.

The stranger made his way into The Dalles. Joseph said the river and the giant rapids that marked it overshadowed the little town and only later did he come to appreciate the amenities it had to offer.

The Columbia River had captured Captain Lewis and Mr. Clark and most everyone who made their way west to find it. So massive it is, so rolling and wide, the wind often whipping up white-caps as it roars up the gorge. Especially at the rapids where the waters of a thousand miles of British territory and unsettled land pour into a canyon so treacherous that only fools or dreamers or men bent on suicide would ever attempt passage. Joseph sat at the top of the ridge looking down, in awe of a river so mighty, so broad, and so busy on its way to the Pacific.

Like tiny scraps of paper, rafts with wagons and stick-figures of men were sucked out into the current, heading downstream. Below
the rapids, wharves jutted out into it, ships nudged into them leaving broken wakes trailing into the choppy water. A hotel of several stories with the name “Umatilla House” painted in huge letters on the side took up a good section of the shoreline.

Within the mist, Joseph caught glimpses of springboards, scaffoldings where men would fish. None were fishing now and so Joseph’s hope of locating Fish Man lessened.

To the east, he noticed several wagons camped on the hillside, away from the river. He took his sketch book out and made notations of the angles and grades of the huge ravines. Below him, more wagons circled closer to the river and he spied rafts of pine logs. People seemed to be living out of their wagons, close to the water, waiting. He saw one small pack string heading east and thought it odd. Putting his sketchbook back into the pack, he rode down the grassy hillside, through some timbered ravines, and into the town for his initial look at the community that would redirect his life.

The level of activity amazed him. Wagons rattled through the dusty streets. Dogs barked. Men clustered on corners, smoke rising from their cigars. Wide-faced Indians walked unfettered along the boardwalks, usually in twos. He caught a glimpse of a Chinese man in his blue silks disappearing into an alley. Bonneted women whisked out of the mercantile, children in hand followed by aproned men loaded with string-wrapped packages. A man yelled at Joseph, offering a price for the kelpie, claiming its hide would fetch a pretty price for shoes.

“No thanks!” Joseph said, shaking his head in wonder. He had already decided not to let the kelpie from his sight. He kept his promise to himself even while he left his horse and pack mule, his bed roll and whip at the livery and started with the dog toward the Umatilla House.

“Little dog will cost much dust at
la maison,”
the livery owner said. He stood like a nail, dark and straight and hard beside the wide pine doors of the livery. Black hair scruffed out beneath a blue handkerchief forming a jagged frame around his long, narrow face. He
picked at his fingernails with a Bowie knife, carefully cleaning beneath them with the knife’s tip as he spoke a heavily accented English.

Joseph stopped, interpreting the man’s words and demeanor. “I’ll risk it,” he said and began walking past the owner.

The thin man shrugged. “Would keep him here, with safety,” he added, this time with more gentleness to his words, a smile and dark eyes which Joseph had missed with the man’s face turned to the concentration of his fingernails.

“Louie Davenport,” he said flipping the knife into a leather holster thonged to his thigh. “But my friends, they all call me French Louie,” he said pronouncing it “Lou-ee” and extended his hand which Joseph shook.

“At
la maison
, um, Umatilla House. Is best place to eat and sleep.” Louie said. “Or Globe Hotel on Washington and Second. Neither will welcome, um,
le petit cherie
. Very strange, your little dog, like skinny-tailed fox,
n’est pas?
”

“Not to me,” Joseph said. “I’ll hang on to him. Shoe leather seems a premium here and I’ll not want any putting on the dog with mine.”

Louie laughed, a hearty laugh ending with a gasping snort. “
Oui!
You are right.” He wiped his eyes and held his foot out. “Hear this one bark?” He bent closer to Joseph and whispered: “Best leather around,
oui?
” He laughed again, more loudly. “He is your friend. Go. Take the little one. If you have trouble, um, bring him back and I will keep him in my own bed for half the price. And no shoes.” Joseph left pacified, Louie having won him over.

Not far from the livery, Joseph passed a barber shop and baths, locating the lavishly furnished Umatilla House, just four years old. He planned to check in, bathe, eat, and find a barber. Instead, he located the gaming tables in the saloon even before he checked into his room.

“Pooch’s gotta go, friend,” the barkeep said as Joseph leaned against the polished mahogany bar surveying the players. The kelpie stood guard at his feet beside a brass spittoon. Lush ferns in pots
brought elegance even into the bar of the hotel and flashed green in the mirror that covered the entire wall behind the barkeep. In a far corner of the wainscoted room were several tables set for dining. Most of the area was taken up with poker tables or men simply sharing a brew. Fragrant scents drifted from the kitchen.

Without speaking Joseph placed two ten-dollar gold pieces on the shiny surface of the bar.

Surprised, the barkeep said, “Used to dust,” as he turned the coins around in his fingers before dropping them into his pocket. He squinted at the kelpie. “Keep him quiet, don’t want no trouble from him.” Then changing the subject he said, “Not from Canyon City, then?”

“California. Is Canyon City where the gold’s coming from these days?” Joseph asked.

The barkeep nodded assent, his curly dark hair a mat around his face. “First strike in ’59,” he said. “More coming out each day, when they can get it out. Not many folks want to make the trip or too busy thinking they’ll make more money mining or moving on to Oregon City. No matter. Coming or going, they spend their money here. What can I get you? Or don’t the dog let you drink?”

Joseph spent the next several hours winning at poker. He always said it was an art. He liked reading the faces of his opponents, charming them with his stories while he learned about their quirks and grimaces before they made their bets. He challenged himself by remembering what their hands held so he could relate that information to his own next bet. He liked the rush of remembering which cards had been played, who could possibly hold what remained in the deck. He always lost some at first, spending time watching and learning. And he found his opponents were more at ease with his losses and didn’t seem to mind so much later when he upped his risk and energy into winning.

The kelpie slept quietly at his feet beneath the round table occasionally sniffing at the peanut shells dropped by the handfuls of the patrons. Once the kelpie stood, a square block of defiance, and
snapped his jaws at some jingling spurs that walked by on a cowboy moving to the next table, but he never bit and he never left Joseph’s side. He was there when Joseph scooped up his winnings as the saloon closed up for the night.

In the morning, before setting out to find Fish Man, Joseph had his bath and haircut. At both places, he heard more of the talk and energy coming out of Canyon City. He was surprised he had not seen more activity himself when he had encountered Archibald Turner near there, thin and defeated. The trail had not been crowded with either hopeful or discouraged miners. And Archibald’s luck in panning for gold offered no incentive.

At the mercantile, he listened to stories about the rapidly growing city. “I look for grass train, corn train, bacon train, anything!” the mercantile owner said to several men who laughed as they stood near the egg baskets at the end of the long counter. The floor was worn smooth at that spot by the shuffling of leather as men stood and talked with Benson Hahn, proprietor. “No one wants to make the trip. All head west. Crazy! I have orders. Orders!” He pulled at imaginary lengths of hair straight up from his bald head. “And cannot get them in!” He tugged at his mutton chops, grimaced. “Could at last become wealthy man and will not for want of an ox or a mule or even a pig!”