The Whip (12 page)

Two

California

1849

A stagecoach, heading from Santa Cruz to Sacramento, made its way along a rutted road, the horses kicking up clouds of brume-like dust. Uninhabited terrain stretched as far as the eye could see. Perched on the box next to the driver, her face, hat, and clothes covered by a layer of dirt and grit, sat Charley Parkhurst…four months and a few weeks later already a pretty damn good man.

She was surprised at how easy her physical transformation had been. As a man, she now spoke, whereas as a woman, she would have been silent; as a man, she would take what she desired, whereas as a woman, she would have acquiesced. She must now push forward into this new world she was discovering and this new person she was becoming…a world of freedom and reprisal—an eye for an eye.

Charley pulled a can of snuff from her vest pocket and offered it to the driver.

“Thankee kindly,” he said, plucking some from the can with his thumb and forefinger. He stuffed it under his lip. She made a mental note: thankee kindly.

The driver leaned over his side of the coach, hawked up liquid, pursed—in an almost delicate way—his lips, and then in a moment of fierce concentrated precision aimed at a branch on a passing bush and spat. That he missed that branch and hit another mattered to him not a whit. He settled back, a bemused smile dancing across his lips.

A moment later, Charley sloshed the tobacco around her mouth and spat out the brown juice, after which she, too, sat back. She did the smile as well, looking around in that same god-like benevolent way. She could get used to this: sitting up high, controlling the horses, spitting, man-smiling, everything.

As they neared their destination, she could see a scattering of cloud-like canvas and frame dwellings spreading out from the greenbelt that marked the confluence of the American and Sacramento Rivers. “That’s it?” she said.

“Yep. That’s Sacramento. Beating heart of the Mother lode.”

“Don’t look like much.”

“Well,” said the stagecoach driver, glancing over at Charley with a smile, “it ain’t in some ways. In other ways you might say it is. Depends what you want it to be.”

The coach and six-team trotted alongside the riverbank. In a short time the reaching arms of Sacramento surrounded them, and then, with an escalation of sights and sounds and voices, Sacramento itself—the clamoring, kaleidoscopic scene that had now become part of the fantasy of every man and boy in America. Charley leaned over the side of the coach, enthralled.

The stagecoach driver saw the direction of her gaze. “That’s the Embarcadero,” he said. “And that’s the San Francisco steamer over there, carrying all the gold hungry men bound for Sutter’s Mill.”

She was taken aback by the dozens of barks, brigs, and schooners moored along the docks. They created a forest of masts…their cables looped around tree trunks and roots. The street was choked with stagecoaches and wagons, disgorging passengers, the passengers running for the boats. Men of every shape, color, and constitution—swearing, spitting, sweating, shoving.

Later, Charley would learn their names: Mexicans, Indians, Chinese, Australians, Basques, Croats. She noticed that there were no women of any shape or color.

The stagecoach driver was thinking the same thing. “Not a woman in sight,” he said, sighing.

Charley forced a sigh, following suit.

The driver looked over at her. “Oh hell, don’t worry. You can find tarts pretty easy though. If you got the cash.”

“Thanks for the tip,” she said.

The coach came to a halt at the Whistman Stagecoach stop.

“You can find Birch’s Stage Company that-away,” the driver pointed. “About a hundred yards down the street. Big sign. Can’t miss it. Good luck on the new job.”

“Thankee kindly.”

Charley reached under her seat to pick up the grip containing her few belongings. She stepped down off the coach, placing boot leather into the dusty street, and at once was swept up in the inexorable river of men. Men with the glint of gold in their eyes, men striking up deals, men tugging on horses, mules, asses, and oxen. She had not realized before her long journey began just how many different types of men existed in the world.

She found herself intoxicated by the new possibilities of who she could become. In this land of dreams and digging for gold, the past could disappear. She could imagine that some would find this kind of amnesia worth almost as much as the golden dust they bled for.

Charley was pulled along in the torrent of men, herself indistinguishable from all the others…being moved along like a scrubby calf in the middle of a cattle drive on some endless trail. She was pushed up onto a storefront porch. Surprised by the sudden stillness around her, she caught her breath, then plunged back into the street and the moving course of men flowing around island-stacks of barrels, boxes, lumber, and supplies, to fight her way to her destination.

As she was struggling through the crowd, she saw auctioneers, dressed in wild colors, bedecked with ruffles. Some of them standing on wooden boxes, hawking their wares—gold mining equipment, sacks of flour, raw pork, dangling chickens, apples. There was one hawking old clothing and locked suitcases.

Charley was pushed onward. Over here was a cluster of gaming tables manned by sharp-eyed fellows with clever fox-faces. They were clean-shaven or pointy-bearded; they were all well-dressed. One of these professionals sat at each of the tables, shuffling over and over his deck of cards: Flip, flip, slap. Flip, flip, slap.

She noticed one of them looking over at her, sizing her up. The gambler wore fine boots and fancy clothes and had pomaded hair. He looked good to Charley, probably because he was clean and groomed. Then she noticed his fingers. They were long and graceful, toying with the faro deck. Once she’d let herself look hard she couldn’t take her eyes away. They were beautiful, those fingers, the hands of an artist. They executed a dazzling display of shuffling.

The gambler took Charley in.

“I see that you’re interested in the game of faro, my man.” He looked down at the table and shuffled. “What brings you to the West? Come to seek your fortune in gold?”

Charley looked up now at green calculating eyes, an aristocratic nose and forehead. His voice was refined.

“No, sir,” said Charley. “Got me a job as a whip over at the Birch Stage Company.”

The gambler raised his head, cocked an eyebrow. “A whip? Mr.…”

She nodded. “Charley Parkhurst.”

The gambler extended a manicured hand. “Edmund. Edmund Bennett.”

She shook his hand.

“Kind of small to handle a six-team, aren’t you?” he said.

“Reining is a matter of skill, not of size. But then I expect you know about as much about my profession as I know about yours.”

“Meant no offense. Why don’t you come back when you get your paycheck and I’ll give you a lesson. We’ll double your money by the end of the day.”

“I’m not a gambling man, Mr. Bennett.”

Edmund looked out over the chaos around them. “This is wide open territory, Charley. Step one foot out of town and there’s no law, no church, no social order of any kind. We are all of us gambling men.”

A trio of drunken miners paused near Edmund’s table. He gestured for them to approach.

“Step right up, gentlemen.”

They crowded close around him.

“Good day, Charley,” Edmund said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. And good luck on the job.”

As he was dismissing her though, his eyes caught something. He stared at her, fascinated.

Charley, willing herself to hold still, to not give away more than this man already somehow knew, felt herself deeply read. It was not a pleasant sensation.

Still, in a moment he had turned his attention back to his potential customers. He smiled at them with patent falseness—all that anyone expected was falseness—anything more than that was strange, was suspect. His fingers were doing something dizzifying. The men watched, their mouths open with concentration.

As he shuffled and dealt, Charley backed off and disappeared into the crowd.

Edmund flicked his eyes up once to monitor her departure.

Three

Charley hesitated for a moment before she entered the office of the Birch Stage Company. She reminded herself…keep the voice low. No need to give herself away first day on the job.

“You shouldn’t trouble yourself to find a permanent room here in Sacramento,” advised Jake, the sandy haired fellow at the front desk. “You won’t be using it much.”

He eyed Charley, as if estimating the stamina of this new recruit from back east. “You’ll sleep on the road. We got way stations from here to Santa Cruz. Eat there too. You better like beans and stale johnnycake and shit coffee. Other times you sleep wherever you can find a place. In the stagecoach, under a tree even.”

Charley nodded her understanding. She wasn’t in Sacramento to indulge in creature comforts.

“You know how to shoot a gun?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’m a pretty good shot,” she said.

“You could get killed. You know that?”

Again Charley nodded. She knew about getting killed.

“Pay’s good, though. And if you last it out six months, Mr. Birch pays for room and board. And get yourself a pair of good driving boots…with high, small heels to catch the brake at the foot-hold. Now come on out back. I’ll show you the horses.”

Charley followed him. At the stable she went right over to one of the horses, a beautiful Morgan stallion that resembled Beelzebub. She began to stroke his neck, murmuring soft sounds to him.

“Good thing you love horses. That’s important,” Jake said. “Oh and I almost forgot…we lost a whip real sudden and his run up to Nicolaus needs a new driver right away. Think you can start right off Wednesday?”

“Sure, no problem, but I was hoping to do runs to San Francisco. Is that possible?”

“Nope. Not in the near future. Only the experienced whips get the longer routes. Why? You got a gal in Frisco?”

“No reason. Just always wanted to go. Do have an old friend that’s supposed to be there now though. Lee Colton. You haven’t met anyone by that name passing through here have you?”

“Not that I know of. Course, I don’t know everybody who passes through town either. Now…as to Wednesday. Be here by dawn. Any other questions?”

“No. I’ll see you then.”

Charley left and headed straight to the nearest saloon.

Once there, she pounded back a few shots of whiskey. How was she going to find Lee if she was stuck on runs out in the middle of nowhere? Would she ever find him?

Fuck. Here she was, dressed as a goddamned man in this godforsaken place. What the hell had she been thinking? What had she done? Thousands of miles away from anything she ever knew. What could she do?

Well, she sure as hell wasn’t making a return trip on the Dreadnaught. That she knew. Christ almighty. She needed to sleep. She also needed to pee.

Charley slid off the barstool and stumbled outside. She found a secluded cluster of bushes behind the bar and relieved herself. Then she headed next door to a flophouse.

The Empire was a flimsy canvas-and-frame affair with a tattered petticoat for a door. She paid and entered. Inside, the dirt floor was strewn with straw. Board and barrel tables were clustered along one wall. Her dusty boots stepped over sleeping bodies of snoring, scratching, odorous, coughing men. Almost every inch of floor space was taken up. She picked one of the few free spots under one of the tables, dropped her pack to the floor, and crawled under, pulling the pack in with her. It would work as a pillow. She turned to find a somewhat comfortable position. In a moment the cool night air set in. She closed her eyes and tried to settle in to sleep, such sleep as she could sieve from her dreams.

Four

Hadn’t even been three weeks and Charley
was already becoming a familiar face along the Sacramento/Nicolaus route. Now alone on the driver’s box, she was grinning on high as the horses bolted forward. In the stiff wind of the escalating speed, she leaned back on her throne, as the coach and six galloped on.

Up ahead, to the side of the road, a miner waved his hat to Charley from where he and some cronies stood at their diggings.

“Hey, Charley,” shouted the miner. His clothes were extraordinarily patched—patches patching the patches.

Charley waved back. The miner flipped a coin, a California gold dollar, down on to the road. Charley watched the coin fall in a glittering arc onto the road ahead. She adjusted the reins and the coin disappeared under one narrow wheel rim of the stagecoach; it was exposed for a split second, then disappeared under the next wheel.

The miner shot his fist into the air.

“Goddamnit. Told you,” he whooped to the others. He waved his hat at the departing coach, and then extended it upside down to the men. “Pay up you pieces of shit.”

“Damn you. Never thought he could do it,” said one of the other miners with grudging admiration as he explored his pocket for cash.

As the months went on, Charley began to pick up more and more runs. Jim Birch started to turn to her every time he needed a last minute replacement.

And this particular run to Hangtown was no exception.

Charley stopped the coach outside a ramshackle swing station, one of an eclectic collection of buildings along the stagecoach routes constructed of whatever could be scrounged from scrap heaps and the rough countryside.

The exhausted passengers climbed out of the coach, some having arrived at their destination, others to stretch their legs or relieve themselves. A young stock tender came out of the station to switch out the horses for the next leg of the journey.

Two prairie nymphs, heavily painted, sashayed up to the coach and handed Charley their tickets. They each tried to flirt with Charley—two variations on the theme of coquetry. It was no good. They ran through their repertoire of looks; they positioned their breasts, one pouted her lips, the other pulled up her skirt to reveal a flash of plump calf.

Charley avoided their gaze.

Puzzled, the girls each worked him even a little harder. It was like flirting with a plank or with a rock.

“Where’s Ben?” asked one of the gals.

Charley shrugged. “My run now.”

“What’s your name?” asked the second gal.

“What’s yours?” said Charley.

“Ben always lets one of us ride up top in the plum seat. And it’s my turn.”

“Well, I’m not Ben.”

“You sure ain’t.”

“Whatever you say, Miss.” Charley looked away. She was still getting accustomed to this part of the job.

“Aw, c’mon. When we get to Hangtown, I know how to treat you real nice.”

She put a high-button boot on the wheel lug, intending to climb up, but the first gal pulled her down.

“What are you doing, you bitch? It’s my turn,” said the second gal.

“Shut your damned mouth. It don’t matter. He ain’t Ben.”

At that moment, a well-dressed man climbed up behind them, taking the coveted seat. He grinned over at Charley as he handed over his ticket. It took her a moment and then she remembered the green eyes and the artist hands. It was that gambler, Edmund Bennett, looking impeccable. Charley found herself grinning back hard. She glanced down with relief at the two bickering gals who’d noticed that the plum place they were fighting over was now occupied.

“Edmund,” both gals squealed in unison.

Edmund tipped his hat to them in a courtly manner.

“You sly devil. Headin’ home to Hangtown?” said the first gal, jutting out one hip and then the other, pouting, touching her oily curls.

Charley lost no time; she raised the whip and called out, “Clear the road.”

With a final squeak the gals dove into the stagecoach, the second gal just squeezing through the doorway before the coach jolted off…the sudden lunge forward swinging the door closed on her last hopeless flounce.

Inside the coach, the gals were still giggling. “Edmund Bennett, you rat.” They adored him; he had manners of a certain sort; he had money; it was the expedient thing to do, to adore him.

Charley settled the horses first into a sweet trot and then into a sweeter lope. Edmund lit a cigar and offered it to her. She nodded her thanks and took it. She puffed on it, looking everywhere but at the man riding next to her. She wished that she weren’t so aware that Edmund, for his part, was studying her, a slight knowing smile on his face. It was as though he knew her secret. No one else had looked at her the way this man did. But did he know? And if he did, what was giving her away?

They went on for some time in silence except for the hypnotic sound of hooves on packed soil. Their silence was soon broken.

Up ahead, swaying from a branch of a great old oak tree, was a dead body.

Charley involuntarily slowed the coach; the sight of the hanging body paralyzing her for a moment, the image releasing a sudden rush of memories. She tried to stop her legs and hands from shaking but couldn’t. The horses, confused, stuttered to a stop.

Edmund, puzzled by Charley’s agitation and obvious unease, waited. He could wait. Wait and the hand will be shown. Maybe it was the driver’s first time seeing a hanging. Or, maybe, the driver had seen too many. He puffed on his cigar—even more intrigued by this whip than he had been before.

Charley took a deep breath.

“Guess they don’t call it Hangtown for nothing,” she said, doing her best to keep her voice steady and nonchalant.

“This is not the work of Hangtown boys,” said Edmund. “They’ve got their hanging tree right smack dab in the middle of town—you know, where folks can have a necktie social, bring the kids, make a day of it.” He gave a cynical smile and then gestured for Charley to bring the coach a little closer to the tree.

She walked the horses forward. Some of the passengers were sticking their heads out the windows, straining for a closer look. She forced herself to look at the man swinging from the tree. It was a white man. He didn’t look like Byron at all.

Edmund continued. “No, this is range detective’s work. Look there, the fellow has a “t” carved into his face. That’s the sentence in these parts for equine abduction. Horse thievery. Brutal, but effective…usually.”

“Seems this fella never learned that lesson,” she said. “Sure as hell hope for his sake, his face was carved up after he was hung.”

“Isn’t it Emerson who says you can read the whole history of a man in his face?” Edmund asked.

Without hesitation, Charley answered. “‘Faces never lie…’ is what he said. ‘A man passes for that he is worth. What he is engraves itself on his face, on his form, on his fortunes, in letters of light which all men may read but himself.’”

“Why, Charley, my man,” said Edmund. “I’m impressed. A whip and a scholar.”

“Nah. Only damn book I own.”

Edmund laughed. He pulled a silver flask from his pocket and took a nip. He held it out to Charley.

“Don’t mind if I do.” She took a strong swig.

“Another cigar as well?” he said.

Charley thanked him and took the cigar, lit it and took a long draw. She found her eyes darting back up to the body.

“See the feet?” said Edmund. “See how they’re tied up tight? That’s a signature. They all have their signatures. My guess is Love.”

“Who?”

“Harry Love. One of the best damn range detectives in the mother lode, or so they say. They say he ties the feet because he hates to see them dance.”

“Poor bastard,” said Charley.

“Yes,” said Edmund. “Poor bastard.”

Charley drew in a few deep calming draws. Thank God for cigars. They had become one of her new passions. If she were ever a woman again, she’d not easily drop cigars. You could hide all your feelings in the smoking of a cigar.

She could glance at the corpse for a longer instant now; it was getting easier and easier. She took her time, taking it all in. She watched the body sway for another moment.

She twitched the reins and the coach moved forward, continuing on towards Hangtown. But again her thoughts drifted back to Byron.

And then there were three of them—Lee’s image had just slid out of its hiding place.

It had started again…Christ almighty.

That hanging corpse—it had all come flooding back again. She tried her hardest to fight it—to push it back out of her mind. But she had day after day driving the coach with nothing to do but seethe and drink and remember.

Revenge seemed to be her only salvation. But now that seemed impossible. The thought of letting go of that revenge was abhorrent to her. But what else was there.

Life had been glorious these last few months. Her job, the horses, the independence she had found living as a man.

She would not let Lee take anything more from her.

She had to have the courage to jab a needle into the heart of her wound…and with a single breath, release the rot inside. She would try to take that breath. She would try to untie Lee from her rage…but to give him her forgiveness? Never.