Squire's Quest (10 page)

The summer of 1872, he again worked as a blacksmith's helper. By fall he had a couple
of offers to ride herd on drives from Texas north. All he had to do was get himself to Galveston
in January.

He spent Christmas of that year back in New Orleans, but before the new year rolled in,
he was in Galveston. Even in winter, the Gulf was warm enough to wade. Well, maybe not for
someone who hadn't been raised to swim in a river swollen with snowmelt. The first time he
found himself alone on a sandy beach, with waves breaking at his feet, he stripped down to his
altogether and swam out until he couldn't see the shore. Floating there, he laughed out loud.
Maybe this wasn't an ocean, but it was the next best thing. Eventually he'd get to the Pacific, but
until then, he was satisfied. The water had been salty, the waves had buoyed him up and down,
and there'd been funny-looking seagulls diving straight down and spearing fish with their sharp
bills.

Looking back, he could no longer see Dodge. Ahead of him was new ground, places he
hadn't been, people he hadn't met. Adventures he hadn't had.

"I'd still like to see me a real gold rush." He nudged Gawain with his heel. "What d'you
think, boy?"

The dun twitched the other ear, but that was all. His was a phlegmatic nature, Merlin
had long since decided. No sense of adventure at all.

He'd recently heard talk about gold in a place called the Black Hills. When he'd come
through Cheyenne, back in '70, he'd seen a map with that label on it, off to the northeast in Indian
country.

"No sense going up there in winter. If the rumors are true, maybe we'll head into the
Black Hills before we go to California. "

Gawain snorted. As long as Merlin fed him his oats at suppertime, he was easy to get
along with.

* * * *

Virginia City, Montana Territory
November, 1875

Callie was setting out the day's fresh bread when the front door opened with such force
that it slammed back against the wall. "Git your truck together, girl. We're moving on."

"Pa!" she hadn't seen him for half a year and more. The last she'd heard, he'd gone up to
Bannack. In a way it had been a relief, for it meant she'd been able to hold onto some of her
small wage. She hadn't missed him much. The father she'd idolized when she was a tyke was
long gone, leaving in his stead a mean, hard man.

"You hear me, girl? Hop to it. Stage leaves in an hour and we'll be on it, with or without
your truck."

"But I--"

"What's this, then?" Mrs. Flynn stood in the doorway between the shop and the kitchen.
She had her rolling pin in one hand. "We thought we were rid of you."

"I came to get my girl. You'll want to pay me what you owe her."

"Her 'prenticeship ain't up. That means you owe me. I reckon we're even."

Pa raised his arm, like he was going to hit Mrs. Flynn, but then he slowly lowered it.
Callie didn't blame him. She'd seen what Mrs. Flynn could do when she was riled. He jerked his
head at her. "Go."

She wanted to tell him she wouldn't go with him. Pleadingly she looked at Mrs. Flynn,
hoping she'd show some sign of standing behind her.

But the baker shook her head. "He's your pa," she said, sounding like she hated having
to say it. "You ain't of age yet."

Slowly Callie took off her apron. Holding back the tears that threatened to choke her,
she slipped past Mrs. Flynn and went up the narrow, steep stairs to the loft. She gathered her
good dress, her Sunday shoes, the one book she owned, and her nightgown and wrapper, bundled
it all into the blanket Merlin had bought her in Eagle Rock, and rolled it like he'd showed her. All
she had to tie it with was a leather thong, but it was long enough to serve. The only warm wrap
she had was a shabby man's greatcoat, but she did have a decent bonnet, thanks to Mrs.
Flynn.

Before she opened her hidey hole, she stepped to the top of the stairs and listened. No
one was in the kitchen, leastways not making any noise. The loose brick in the chimney slid with
a small grating sound, and she froze, hoping no one had heard it. After six heartbeats, she pulled
it the rest of the way out. Inside the dark little hole was every cent she'd been able to save in
almost five years, a small handful of coins, two little gold nuggets, and three bills. Somewhere
around thirteen dollars, all told. She put it in the center of a piece of muslin, knotted the corners
tightly, and started to wrap another scrap of fabric around it.

Pa will expect me to have saved something.
She untied the bundle and took out
most of the coins. This way when he demanded any money she might have, he wouldn't get it all.
The tightly rolled packet went into a small bag she'd made to hang from her waist. At knee level,
it wasn't likely to make a lump under her skirt. She put the coins into her pocket, knowing they
wouldn't stay there long.

Hot anger flooded her.
He's supposed to take care of me, not the other way around.
If only... No, he's my pa, and I owe him obedience.

Before she went back down the steps, she looked around the bare little room she'd lived
in for nearly six years. It was snug, with the kitchen chimney rising on one end, and more
comfortable than any place she'd ever lived. A raggedy but soft chair sat by the chimney, with a
good lamp on small barrel beside it.
I don't want to go. I like it here. I've been happy.
Mostly.

She swallowed and it hurt her throat.
Why didn't I write to Merlin's folks? He said
they'd take me in.

She knew why. They weren't family, and her pa was. Family was more important than
anything else. Even Mrs. Flynn said so, and she thought Pa was worthless.

Mrs. Flynn was at the bottom of the steps. "Take this," she whispered, holding out a
small packet. "Don't let your pa know you've got it. You owe him duty, but you don't owe him
support. Everybody needs get-away money."

Callie couldn't answer, Not without blubbering. She dropped her blanket roll and threw
her arms around Mrs. Flynn. "Thank you," she whispered. "You've taught me so much. I--"

"You're a good girl. Mind you recall what you've learned here. You can always make
yourself a good living." Batting Callie's hands aside, she unbuttoned her dress halfway to her
waist and tucked the packet into her corset. "There now. Give me a hug and get yourself out to
your pa. He's not a patient man."

"About time," Pa said when she came out the door. "Let's go." He strode away, leaving
her to keep up as best she could. At the stage station, he told her to wait while he oversaw the
loading of a wooden crate, about two feet on a side. "Books and keepsakes," he told the driver.
"Nothing breakable."

Callie wondered what keepsakes were in it. She didn't recall seeing anything worth
keeping in his cabin, when she'd stayed there.

The stage was crowded. Callie was crammed between her pa and a miner who smelled
like he'd slept in a cess pit. But at least she was warm. All but her feet.

After the first night and day, she'd decided she'd rather travel with a string of freight
wagons. At least then she'd had a comfortable bed and decent food. The road was better than it
had been the last time she'd traveled this route, though. They reached Ogden in six days instead
of the month her journey had taken.

Her pa wasn't good company. The only times he spoke to her was to hurry her back onto
the stage when she'd only half eaten her meals and to warn her to behave herself and not speak to
strange men. Twice he hit her for asking questions. The second time she was sure he'd blacked
her eye. After that she only spoke when he said something to her.

Since in her opinion, none of the men on the stage or at the stops were anyone she
wanted to talk to, she didn't have any trouble keeping silent.

They got to Ogden late in the afternoon. Her father muttered about needless expense, but
he got them rooms in a hotel close to the depot. It wasn't much of a hotel, far as she could see.
There were mouse biscuits in the corners, and the sheets smelled musty. She slept on top of the
bedding, with the quilt wrapped around her. Come morning, Pa took her to a dingy little
café and ordered mush for her. The milk was watery and there was no sugar on the table.
He had coffee and toast, but she'd learned better than to say anything.

After breakfast he walked her rapidly to the train station. Her blanket roll had gotten all
squashed and misshapen in the stage boot, and it was hard to hold onto. What with trying to keep
everything from falling out and trotting to keep up with his long strides, she was breathless by
the time they got there.

He went right to the ticket window, but she stopped and set the blanket roll down on a
bench so she could tighten the leather thongs.

"Where are we going, Pa?" she said when he came to join her.

"Cheyenne. You set here and wait for me. I've got business to take care of."

They'd passed a little café on the way here. Hungry from too many half-finished
meals, she'd hoped they would have time to sit down and have a filling meal. "When does our
train leave?"

"Eight this evening. I'll be back before then." And without another word, he walked
away.

Mouth agape, she watched him disappear through the swinging doors.
This evening?
What is it now? Nine in the morning?
A burning anger filled her, that he would care so little
about her he'd leave her alone here, with no money, no food, and no one to protect her from
those strange men she'd been warned against.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she strode toward the sign that said LADIES. The
necessary was outside, but just before the door leading to it, there was a small lounge, with chairs
and a vanity. The room was empty, so she had privacy to pull out the packet Mrs. Flynn had
given her. When she opened it, she found six silver dollars and a five dollar gold piece. She
extracted two of the silver dollars and rewrapped the rest. While it wasn't real comfortable tucked
into her corset, it was probably as safe there as anywhere.

She checked the tie around her waist that held up her other purse. It was secure.
I'm
not rich, but I bet I've got enough to buy a ticket to Boise City on the stage.

"And what would Merlin's folks think, you showing up there out of the blue?" she
muttered. "Likely they'd slam the door in your face."

She returned to the station lobby and sat down. There was a big clock over the doors and
she watched the hands as hour after hour passed. In between she looked around. There was a
telegraph office next to the ticket window. Finally at five minutes to five, she took her courage in
hand and walked to the telegraph office. "I'd like to send a telegram," she said, when the man
inside looked up.

He slid a pad of paper and a pencil across the counter. "Write it there. You get the first
ten words and after that you pay by the word. Address don't count."

She stared at the blank sheet so long that he came back and said, "Hurry up. I'm about to
close."

"Oh! Yes, I will..." Unable to think of a better way to say it, she wrote: PA TAKING
ME CHEYENNE STOP PROBABLY UP TO SOMETHING BAD STOP SCARED. She
addressed it to Merlin Lackland in Boise City and signed it CAL SMITH.

The telegraph man's eyebrows rose when he read it, but he didn't say anything. He took
her money and gave her change, then sat down and laid his finger on the key. "Miss? How's he to
find you?" He sounded concerned.

Those were the first kind words she'd heard in near a week. Callie almost wept. "I-I
don't know. But he will." Her voice broke. "He will."

She had to believe Merlin would come to her rescue.

* * * *

On a clear day, he could see the mountains rising in the distance.

He took his time. If something caught his eye off to one side or the other, Merlin went to
see it. He reckoned this would be the only time he'd pass through this part of the country, so he
might as well see what drew so many folks here.

Western Kansas was getting settled, little by little. At the rate railroads were building
across the state, it wouldn't be long before they spilled over in to Colorado Territory, if they
hadn't already. He stayed well off the road to Santa Fe, for after seven months of sharing every
waking moment with a dozen other cowhands, the silence and solitude were to his liking. After a
while the country all looked about the same, short grass prairie, dry and windswept, and chewed
some, a result he reckoned, of the locust plague he'd heard about. He wasn't sure when he passed
across into Colorado Territory.

He was somewhere short of Las Aminas when got his chance to try out the binoculars
he'd bought second hand. The night was clear and cold, with hardly a whisper of breeze. When
the fat old moon came up over the horizon, he felt a shiver of anticipation. Once he'd fed himself
and Gawain, he put out the small cook fire and crawled into his bedroll. He'd refrained from
using the binoculars until now because he'd wanted to be high up, where the air was clear and the
sky dark, for his first good look at the moon's surface.

He stared at the moon until his eye ached and his fingers were numb. It was high
overhead when he carefully tucked the binoculars into their case and lay back, arms behind his
head. "Great God, who'd have known the moon could look so close, and be so rough? Why I'll bet
some of it's just like the big lava flow I passed on the way to Eagle Rock."

The moon shone whitely in the sky, and the dark areas some called The Man in the
Moon looked no different from before. Yet now he'd seen them for what they were. "I wonder if
there are maps," he said, as he scooted down under the covers. "I'd like to see if there are names
for those big flat places. And that hole, with the white rays stretching out from it. Wonder what
it's called."

He fell asleep, wondering if Jules Verne had ever seen the moon up close before he
wrote his story about it.