Crossing (22 page)

“These are Cheyenne clothes. They’re better than gentlemen’s clothes. Except for VMI uniforms,” Yancy said succintly. “Anyway, where’s Morgan?”

Clay shook his head in mock shame. “Mama Morgan had to go home. He got word one of his favorite cows is about to have a calf. It’s out of season, and she’s having trouble with it. You know Morgan, he’s more worried about cows and horses and dogs and cats than he is with people.”

“Well then, why don’t we wait till tomorrow, when we can celebrate with Morgan?” Yancy asked diffidently.

“No, no! You know what the Bible says, ‘Don’t put off tomorrow what you can do today.’”

“I don’t believe it says that,” Yancy scoffed.

Clay shrugged. “Then it ought to. Come on, let’s settle up with these pickles and crackers.” Rising, he went up to the counter, tapped on it, and called, “Mr. Mason! Mrs. Mason! Hello?”

A large, round woman came through the curtains from the back of the store and chugged along to the money drawer. “There is no need,” she huffed, “for calling out so sharp and yelling like a wild Indian.” When she caught sight of Yancy, her big blue eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, I do beg your pardon. Are you, sir, a wild Indian?”

“No, I’m a tame one,” Yancy said with a smile. He came forward, his hand held out. “How do you do, ma’am. I’m Yancy Tremayne.”

She stepped back and primly folded her hands in front of her apron. “How do you do, sir. I am Mrs. Mason, and it is my pleasure to meet you. I’m aware that you are being shunned by the Amish. However, that is not why I refuse to shake your hand. You, Mr. Tremayne, and you, Clay Tremayne, smell like pickles, and I don’t wish to smell like pickles or to take money that smells like pickles. I insist you come back to the kitchen and wash your hands and face before I take your money … or your hands.”

“Aw, come on, Delilah, I’ll buy some of that rum bay cologne so you’ll let me kiss your hand,” Clay teased as they headed back toward the curtained kitchen.

“I have not given you leave to call me by me first name, sir, and certainly you’re not going to kiss my hand. And if I did sell you the bay rum you would simply smell like bay rum and pickles. Now, wash up and put the money in the cash drawer. Also, I suggest that you freshen your breath, so that everyone you meet won’t think you’ve been putting up pickles. I’m going out back to pick the fresh herbs for the afternoon customers,” she said and majestically sailed out the back door.

“What a woman,” Yancy said admiringly.

“Maybe if you get lucky we can find you a Delilah tonight,” Clay said, grinning.

Just east of the township of Lexington was an old road that ran from north to south. The Indians that had originally colonized the Shenandoah Valley called it the Great Warriors Trail. Then the Quakers and Amish had come in, and they called it the Valley Pike. The other colonists—the Long Knives, the English—called it the Great Wagon Road. They had come to the verdant valley from Pennsylvania and northern Virginia. Finally the state of Virginia had macadamized it, which made it the quickest and most comfortable road in the state, and then it was called the Valley Turnpike. It ran the length of the valley from Tennnessee to Maryland.

Although Yancy had traveled many miles across America, he had never ventured east of Lexington. Virginia Military Institute was north and slightly west of town, and that had been the border of his wanderings beyond the Tremayne farm. Now as they rode the turnpike he saw that there were outposts and stores and farms as they rode northeast. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“We’re riding the Great Valley Road,” Clay answered grandly. “Been here more than one hundred and fifty years.”

“History’s not my favorite subject,” Yancy grumbled. “Might as well go back to the institute and read a book.”

“Ahh, but one thing you’re never going to find in your history book,” Clay retorted, “and that would be Star’s Starlight Saloon. Right up ahead.”

Yancy looked ahead, then, as he was accustomed, he sniffed. He could see faint points of light ahead, and his sensitive hearing picked out noise—nothing of definition, just cacaphonic sounds that did not fit the night—and a very slight man-scent. He looked at Clay and repeated, “Star’s Starlight Saloon? Kind of redundant, isn’t it?”

Clay stared at him, one sardonic eyebrow raised. “Redundant? So you’re such a grand gentleman after all?”

Yancy blushed, though Clay couldn’t see it in the dark, and his voice sounded proud. “
Grammar for the Southern Gentleman
—’redundant: superfluous repetition.’”

Clay laughed long and heartily. “I congratulate you, cousin. You’ve become an interesting man. You look like a savage Indian and converse like a gentleman. The women are going to eat you alive.”

They proceeded to Star’s Starlight Saloon, hitched their horses, and went through the double oak-and-glass doors.

Yancy stopped inside to look around and let his senses take everything in. The first of his senses that was assaulted was the most sensitive, as always—his sense of smell. The place smelled of unwashed men, horse manure mixed with mud, strong acrid cigar smoke, cheap perfume, and whiskey. He heard a tinny piano playing “Camptown Races.” Underneath the murmur of the crowd, he heard men placing bets and calling hands. His sharp gaze swept across the room, taking in the hard men and half-dressed women, and he saw that Clay had already crossed to the bar, ordered a drink, and was embracing a full-figured blond lady who giggled and embraced him with obvious recognition.

Yancy moved to join him, and then his gaze, stunned, was fixed on a young woman standing at the piano, who was obviously getting ready to sing. She looked like Hannah Lapp. Or rather she looked like a somewhat vulgar copy of Hannah Lapp, but she still gave Yancy a small shock. She was small-boned, with ash brown hair streaked with blond. She had dark eyes and the same narrow shoulders as Hannah, with an erect bearing. She wore a very lowcut dress, and her hair was mussed, with tousles of curls hanging over her shoulders. But primly she crossed her hands and nodded to the pianist. He began a reedy “Ben Bolt.”

She sang earnestly, but her voice was drowned out by the din in the saloon, which did not lessen. Still, Yancy could hear her high fluted voice clearly.

The rest of the song was so sad and dreary that Yancy blocked it out, but he listened and watched the girl until she finished. Men crowded around her.

Then Clay appeared in front of him with his blowsy blond woman. “This is the famous Star,” he said, his eyes glinting. “Star can make any man happy. Including you, Yancy. Here you go.”

He handed Yancy a bottle, but Yancy hesitated. “Here, handsome,” Star said, tipping the bottle toward him. “It’s smooth, it’ll make you happy, and it’s on the house,” she said silkily.

“Like you,” Clay said, planting a kiss on her reddened lips.

“Only for you, Clay, my young devil,” she replied. “Just for you.”

“You should be so lucky, Yancy,” he leered. “Maybe when you’re old enough to be a real man.”

Star looked him up and down. “Indian, ain’t ya? Handsome Indian, too. Some places don’t welcome Indians ‘cause the drink makes ‘em crazy. But Clay here speaks for you, so I know you’ll behave.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Yancy said and took another swig. “And thanks for the good whiskey. It’s smooth and it makes me happy, ‘specially since it’s on the house.”

“Good manners, too, just like a real gentleman, even if he is a savage,” Star said admiringly.

“You got that all wrong, Star,” Clay said. “I’m the savage.” He started kissing her passionately, and Yancy politely looked away. He took another swig of the whiskey then decided that he wanted to meet the pretty singer.

“Miss Star, ma’am?” he interrupted, slightly nudging Clay on the arm.

“What, cuz?” Clay asked lazily, looking up.

“Who is that lady that was singing just now?” Yancy asked.

Star looked around. “Oh, her? She’s one of my very best girls. Here, just wait a minute….” She disentangled herself from Clay and sashayed through the crowd. Pushing aside the men that surrounded the girl, she took her by the arm, whispered, and pointed.

The girl nodded and followed Star back to where Clay and Yancy stood at the bar. Star grabbed Clay’s arm again, and the girl stopped and looked Yancy up and down. Then, as elegantly as any well-bred young woman, she curtsied.

Instinctively, as Major Thomas Jackson had taught him to do with ladies, he bowed. “How do you do, ma’am,” he said. “May I introduce myself? I am Yancy Tremayne, at your service.”

She smiled up at him and put one delicate hand to her halfexposed breast. “Well then, Mr. Yancy Tremayne, suh,” she said with an exaggerated Virginia accent, “muh name is whatevuh you would like it to be.” She curtsied low again.

Star, Clay, and the girl burst into raucous laughter. “Don’t take it amiss, cousin,” Clay said with amusement. “These
ladies
are playful, and sometimes as gentlemen we don’t quite get the joke.”

“I don’t get the joke,” Yancy said darkly.

The girl took his arm gently and stared up into his eyes. She really was much like Hannah Lapp, except for her blatant worldliness. Her lips were reddened; her eyes were lined with kohl, and now that he was close to her, he could see the coldness in them. She looked hard, and he was sure she looked older than she really was. The skin of her throat and breast was smooth, but she already had tough lines around her eyes and mouth.

“What is your name, ma’am?” he asked with all the gentleness he could muster.

“Hmm. Let’s see … Your name is Yancy? Then my name is Nancy,” she said with cold amusement.

Clay laughed drunkenly. “And he’s riding a horse named Fancy! Oh, this is rich!”

They all laughed for a ridiculously long period of time over this poor joke. Yancy had forgotten that he was riding Midnight, not Fancy. He took another drink, sat down on a barstool, and pulled Nancy—or whatever her name was—down on his lap. He kissed her … a lot.

Time melted; time meant nothing. His sense of smell, and hearing, and sight, and even feeling was dulled.

Drunkenly he looked up at a loud and annoying ruckus and saw Clay on the floor. Three men were working him over, one holding his arms and the other two landing blows on his chest and face. Yancy shoved Nancy aside, stood up on a barstool, and jumped into the melee. He felt his right fist connect with someone’s cheekbone, and then he kicked and felt a shinbone shatter. With his left fist he grabbed someone’s throat and squeezed, feeling the life slowly leaking out in short, frantic breaths.

The last thing he heard was, “That’s enough! You’re all under arrest!”

He felt a stunning blow against his forehead, and everything went night black.

Y
ancy woke up, to his very great sorrow. His head felt like a busted melon; his eyes felt like there were great thumping hammers behind them. His mouth tasted like he had eaten cow dung, and his lips were dry and cracking and felt oddly fat. His body ached, from his fingertips to his toes. He tried very hard to go back to sleep, but such succor evaded him.

He sat up, groaning like an old man. He saw a roughhewn ceiling very close to his head, and he saw that he was on a top bunk. Though the world swirled around him, he bent over to look into the bottom bunk.

His cousin Clay lay there, one knee-booted leg hung over the side negligently. He snored.

Very, very slowly and with much care, Yancy turned so that his legs hung off the bunk. Then, holding his breath, he jumped to the floor. He felt that he landed on steel spikes, from the pain that shot from his feet all the way up to, it seemed, the tips of his hair. Then the nausea hit him, and barely registering that the chamber pot was right by a row of steel bars, he bent over it and was horribly sick. Finally, shakily he stood up, wiped his sore mouth, and mumbled, “So this is jail. I don’t like it much.”

He started to try to climb back into his bunk, when his cousin’s voice sounded, remote and reedy, “Not jail that made you sick, cousin. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“But what happened?” Yancy asked, bewildered. “I remember that girl named Nancy, and I remember you arguing with three big ol’ guys.”

“I dunno,” Clay answered, “but I think the three big ol’ guys won.”

A deputy came down the hall and banged on the bars.

Yancy winced at the clanging noise that seemed to burst his eardrums.

“Clay Tremayne, Yancy Tremayne, let’s go. You’ve been bailed out. Come on with me before I change my mind.”

Even though Daniel Tremayne and Morgan Tremayne had only the remotest family connection, they looked oddly alike as they stood in the sheriff’s office. Both of them stood, their legs planted far apart, their arms crossed, their faces severe. Daniel, of course, was eleven years older and his face was more chiseled and worn. Morgan had fair, fine features and coloring, but his demeanor was so dignified and offended as to seem like the most righteous of preachers.

As they entered, Yancy was as low as low, but Clay seemed airy and unconcerned, even though he pressed his right hand hard to his abdomen. “Hello, brother,” he said. “The good news is that they didn’t break my nose. The bad news is that I think they broke one of my ribs.”

Morgan frowned darkly. “I ought to leave you here. Clay, that boy is sixteen years old. How could you do this? Are you ever going to grow up?”

“Sixteen?” Clay was genuinely surprised. “He doesn’t look sixteen, and he sure doesn’t fight like he’s sixteen. Didn’t realize it. Sorry, cousin. I don’t think I would have led you into the den of iniquity if I’d known it.”

“I may be sixteen, but I still make my own decisions,” Yancy grunted. “It’s not your fault, Clay. I made up my own mind.”

Daniel uncrossed his arms and lifted Yancy’s face with one finger. “Not very pretty, son. Black eye and busted lip. Anything else hurt?”

“Everything else,” Yancy answered sullenly, “but especially myshin.” He pulled up his breeches leg and pulled down his moccasins. There was a big black bruise on his right leg. “Someone kicked me.”