A Place Called Harmony (18 page)

A shadow moved across the window, and Clint knew Dollar was coming for him. Pulling the Colt from its holster, he rested it on his leg as he lifted his coffee cup with his left hand and acted like he was simply drinking.

He didn’t have to wait long. Dollar walked into the empty café and headed straight for Clint’s table.

He leaned back, the Colt in his right hand, his finger on the trigger.

“It took me a while, Truman, but I finally remembered you.” Dollar stood in front of the table. He was a man used to intimidating people with his size, Clint guessed. “You’ve grown some since I last saw you, but I’ll never forget those cold eyes that stared at me once like I was lower than dirt.”

“You’re still lower than dirt, Dollar.” Clint knew it would do him no good to act like he didn’t know the man.

To his surprise, Dollar laughed and took a seat across the table as if he’d been invited.

“I ain’t here to pick at old scabs, Truman. I’m here on business. I’ve done some checking. You’ve got three, maybe four wagons heading out of here as soon as you get the drivers.”

Clint waited. If Dollar asked for a job, he’d simply say it had been filled, but somehow he didn’t think the big guy was here for work.

Dollar ordered a coffee and as soon as the waitress disappeared he said, “The livery owner says you work for a rich old man up north who thinks he wants to build a town. Now, I’m not greedy, but, since we were old army buddies, I thought you wouldn’t mind it if a few barrels of goods got accidentally left in the livery. It’d be like insurance to make sure you get safely along that road north without anyone bothering you. There’s danger at every bend in that road and no help for a hundred miles.”

“That your line of work now? Robbing wagon trains?”

Dollar smirked. “Look at it this way, Truman, a few barrels will be a lot cheaper than losing a whole wagon and maybe a man or two along the road. Accidents happen. Stray shots come out of nowhere. Wagon wheels break in the middle of the night. Stock gets spooked.”

Clint nodded. “Seems possible.”

Dollar smiled. “Then we agree?”

Clint leaned forward. “I have another deal. I leave no barrels behind and if you fire one shot at my wagons I’ll hunt you and your gang down. Don’t bother telling me you travel alone. Cowards always travel in packs. Before I’ll be in range of any of your best guns, I’ll pick every one of you off. I’ll leave you gut-shot to die in the middle of nowhere just for the trouble it caused me to track you down.”

Clint saw fear flicker in Dollar’s eyes, and then he laughed. “You’ve hardened since the war, boy. There was a time you couldn’t stomach killing.” He raised an eyebrow. “You were the best shot I ever saw, though. I’ll give you that.”

“I still can’t stomach killing and my shooting has improved over the years. I also learned that you don’t give a snake another chance to bite. If you so much as raise a weapon in my direction, you’re a dead man. I’ve got orders to deliver the wagons north and I plan to do just that.”

Dollar stood. “I guess our business is over, Truman. Don’t look like your load is worth the risk. Maybe I’ll catch you next time when your pockets are fuller and you’re not so worried about another man’s load of goods.”

The big man walked away, never letting his hand get close to his gun.

Clint left money for his coffee and Dollar’s untouched cup, then headed for the livery.

One-Eyed Buford looked frightened when Truman walked out of the sunshine into the shadows of the barn. He jumped up from his stool and hurried over. “I just told him the facts,” Buford said before Clint had time to ask a question. “He comes in here early asking all kinds of questions, but I just told him the facts.”

“It’s all right.” Clint didn’t blame the livery owner. “He would have found me anyway. I just dropped in to rent a buckboard so I could pick up a few more things.”

Buford nodded and hurried off to harness a rig.

By ten o’clock Clint had collected everything except the store-bought clothing Ely wanted. He stopped at a small factory to pick up two dozen shirts and pants, six dresses, and six coats in different sizes. As he stood waiting for the clerk to fill his order, Clint looked out over the rows of sewing machines with women leaning over them. Their fingers moved the material along as their feet pumped away at the pedals. He couldn’t help but wonder if Karrisa had worked in just such a place. The windows were dirty, letting little sunlight in. The place was noisy.

“Where do the women come from who work here?” Clint asked the clerk.

The young man shrugged. “Mostly immigrants who don’t speak English. Dumb as rocks, if you ask me.”

“You ever try talking to them, learning their language?”

“Why? They just work here until their men get jobs, then they quit and have babies. Lucky for us, jobs for those who can’t understand English aren’t easy to find, so the women stay on for a while. We’ve even had them work while heavy with child and then drop their babies right on the floor.” He smiled. “Boss gives them a week off with pay if they don’t take time off before the baby comes.”

Clint didn’t ask any more questions. He just stared at the women, young and old, who were working away. His Karrisa had taken the time to learn how to talk to them. Maybe she’d taught them enough English to get by. When he got back home, he’d tell her about this factory and that would be something they could talk about.

As he drove back toward the livery, he passed a cobbler and remembered how worn Karrisa’s shoes were. They’d tried on all the pairs Ely had at the trading post, but her foot was long and slim. None fit her. On impulse, he stopped and bought a fine pair of lace-up boots for her. The leather was soft and would do a much better job of keeping her feet and calves warm than the cracked shoes she had.

By noon he had all the local supplies and was back at the livery. Buford still looked nervous.

“I’m going to need that fourth wagon,” Clint started, then paused, seeing the livery owner glancing back at the door. “Any problem?”

“No, sir,” Buford answered. “As long as you have the drivers.”

“I will,” Clint said. “Have the wagons loaded by dawn tomorrow—and, Buford, I want everything on the wagons. You understand?”

“I understand.” He moved closer. “Mr. Truman, I should tell you, there ain’t many men who argue with Dollar Holt and live to tell about it. Law can’t prove anything against him because there ain’t never a witness. I’m thinking there won’t be many men who’ll want your hauling job knowing that a man like Dollar is not happy with you. The road north is long and lonely.”

“Don’t worry about it. If Dollar comes after me he’d better take his best shot because he won’t have time to fire twice. Now, all I have to find is two men to drive and I’ll be on my way home in the morning. You do your job and I’ll do mine. We’ll be moving out long before Dollar Holt even notices us gone.”

Clint stopped by the hotel, but no one had asked for him. He walked over to the saloon only to find that his sign had been taken down. When he asked the bartender, the man told him not to bother putting up another one. It would be a waste of time.

For a while Clint walked the streets hoping to find another place to leave a
Help Wanted
note. All he could think about was Karrisa waiting for him to come back. If he didn’t find men by morning, a day would be wasted. He could put an ad in the newspaper, but it wouldn’t be out for three days. He tried asking at other liveries, but most told him to check with One-Eyed Buford down by the tracks.

It was almost dusk when he walked past the factory where he’d bought the readymade clothes. The women were getting off work and all looked exhausted, their shoulders rounded from leaning over sewing, their eyes red from the odor of the dyes.

He walked along with them for a block, thinking of his wife and how she saw them as people, not just immigrants. There was good in his shy bride, more than he’d seen at first.

Playing his last chance, Clint shouted, “Does anyone here speak a little English? I got a job for two men.”

Most of the women kept walking, passing him as if they thought he was a fool preaching on the streets to people who didn’t understand.

Clint waited as the sea of skirts passed, and then he yelled again.

Nothing. A few glanced his direction with fear in their eyes. If they had husbands at home needing jobs, all he had to do was get through to them, but how did he do that?

“I have a job for two men,” he said again. “It’s—”

A tiny woman stepped in front of him. She was in her forties but looked strong and healthy. Her layers of shawls and scarves made her seem fat, but her thin hands and face gave away the truth. “I speak’a da English but my husband, no. He die on the way to America. He no speak’a nothing.”

Clint lowered his voice. “I need two men to drive wagons north. To make the trip will take a few weeks round trip, but the pay is good when you get back. Can you help me find men wanting work?”

“How will’a these two men eat on the road?”

Clint hadn’t expected the questions. “They’ll cook, I guess. They can bring their food along or I’ll hunt and we’ll cook what I shoot.” He made a mental note to buy canned peaches, beans, and jerky. That should be enough. Add coffee for him and four men. Maybe they could trade off on the cooking.

The little woman shook her head. “They no speak’a the English. How you tell’a them what to do?”

He was starting to feel like he was the one being interviewed. “I just need two men who can drive wagons north. It won’t be easy, but it’s simple. All they will have to do is follow the two wagons in front of them. Tell them I’ll provide the food, but they don’t get paid until they drive the empty wagons back to Dallas. If we make the trip there in less than seven days, I’ll pay every man a ten-dollar bonus, but I’m leaving the rest of their salary with the livery owner.”

Clint had no idea why he kept walking with the woman. She didn’t look like she would help him. Maybe she just wanted someone to practice her English on.

They turned the corner and Clint saw two young men jump off the steps of an old boardinghouse and run toward him. They both looked ready to fight, or rob him, or maybe defend their mother.

He waited while the woman spoke what sounded like Italian in rapid fire. Both boys listened, nodding in agreement.

Finally, the woman turned to Clint. “My boys will drive’a your wagons if the pay is fair. I will go along and cook’a for the same amount of pay.”

Clint almost laughed. “I don’t need a cook.” He could almost hear Patrick laughing when the wagons pulled up with a cook on board.

“You must need’a drivers bad if you stand on the street and yell. We make’a the deal. Two drivers and a cook.”

She was right, Clint realized. One extra salary was a small price to pay. “All right. I’ll meet you at the Buford Livery in the morning at seven after I buy food.”

She shook her head. “I cook. I buy food. I need’a thirty dollar. I get all’a we need. If you hunt, you skin. I cook.”

Clint wrote down the name of the livery while she talked to her boys. They looked to be in their late teens and were obviously excited. He shook hands with them and walked back to his hotel thinking he wished he’d been able to hire seasoned drivers who could handle a gun, but this was better than nothing.

When he passed the livery, on impulse, Clint went inside. His gear was still stowed away with his saddle. He lifted the blanket from atop his pile and climbed on one of the loaded wagons. He’d sleep there tonight. If anyone wanted to bother him, they’d have trouble finding him. If anyone wanted to bother the wagons, they’d have
no
trouble finding his Colt.

At seven the next morning Clint stood talking with the livery owner and the two seasoned drivers, Jack West and Harry Woolsey. One-Eyed Buford had recommended them both, and Jack said he’d traveled the north road several times.

All of them, including Clint, were agreeing with Buford that Clint had probably been cheated out of thirty bucks by a little woman when two young men walked into the stable. One carried a bag and the other had boxes piled so high he could barely see.

Their mother came next with an old carpetbag in each hand. Tucked in her arm, she had a bag with long thin loaves of bread sticking out. Behind her was a little boy of about eight and an old woman who could have been a hundred. Both carried bags. A mangy dog with one worthless leg limped behind the boy.

“We ready,” the mother said. “I bring’a my own pots and I buy food for all’a you with your money. My name is Filicita Roma, but you can call me Momma Roma.”

Clint frowned. “The deal was for two men and a cook. Don’t we have a few extras here?”

She smiled. “Don’t’a worry, I not charge you for my momma or the boy. They work free. They are my assistants.” She said the last word slowly as if just learning it.

Clint shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“They no go, we no go. They have no place’a to stay here.” Filicita waved her hand over the old woman and the boy, then pointed at her older sons. “We family. Stay together.”

He knew he was beat. If he didn’t take them, he’d spend at least one more day looking for help with two drivers standing around getting paid. With Dollar Holt bullying everyone in town who’d think about driving for Clint, there was a good chance it would take him a week to find drivers brave enough, or dumb enough, to go along.