Squire's Quest (11 page)

Something was eating at Pa. Callie could tell, the way he kept fidgeting and fretting.
Every so often he'd get up and pace the length of the car. And the way he cracked his knuckles
made her just want to scream.

At least he'd brought her food to eat on the train. Not that dry bread and cheese was any
banquet, but it was better than nothing. She'd rather have the cornbread she'd bought at the little
café across from the depot in Ogden, but she didn't dare bring it out as long as he was apt
to see it. He'd give her the dickens for going out when he'd told her to stay put.

The Conductor came through, turning down the lamps. She propped her blanket roll
against the window and leaned against it, shivering. The stove down at the end of the car didn't
give out much heat unless you sat right close to it. The seats close to the stove had filled up
before she and Pa had got aboard.

"You stay here, girl. I'm goin' to the observation car."

"Can I come along?"

"Didn't I just say to stay here? 'Sides, its' like a men's club there, No women allowed."
He swayed his way up the aisle and through the door into the vestibule. Seconds later a cold draft
made her shiver even harder.

At least she could lie across both seats while he was gone. It wasn't any warmer, but it
was sure a lot more comfortable. Instead of just dozing, she managed to sleep well for long
spells, as long as the train was moving. When morning came, she felt almost rested.

They were stopped in some desolate little town when Pa came back. "Wake up."

She sat up and looked around. It was almost light outside, so she reckoned it was
morning. "Where are we?"

"It don't matter. Let's go. They're servin' breakfast." He turned away and headed toward
the front of the car.

"Pa! Wait. I've got to--" But he's already pushed through the door. Knowing she risked
missing her breakfast, she ducked into the women's necessary, giving silent thanks it was empty.
As fast as her nearly numb fingers would allow, she took care of her needs and straightened her
clothes. A quick glance in the small mirror showed a pink crease in her cheek and hair that
would make any smart rat look for a better nest. "Oh, well, Pa won't notice, and I just won't
worry about anybody else." She hurried through the train, stumbling often as it swayed and
jerked.

The dining car was the fourth one forward. Pa was sitting at a table with two men and
waved her to him. When she sat, both men stared at her and she ducked her head, unwilling to
meet their eyes.

She'd no sooner sat down than a colored man in a white coat set a steaming bowl of
porridge in front of her. Pa was eating ham and eggs, and had a cup of coffee next to his plate.
"Pa, can I have some coffee?"

For a moment she thought he was going to refuse, but then he glanced across the table at
the two men and nodded.

There was a silver pitcher of cream and a matching sugarbowl right in front of her. She
helped herself generously. The first bite of the creamy, sweetened porridge was like heaven. She
could feel its warmth all the way to her belly. When she took a sip of the coffee, she almost wept
with how good it tasted. She heard Pa talking to the men across the table, but she didn't listen.
His voice had that "I'm a great man" tone to it she'd learned to hate. Had he been such a liar, such
a braggart, when she was little and thought he was only one step below God?

She didn't think so.

Her spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl with a sound that sent shivers up her spine. Pa
looked over at her and frowned. "If you're done, you can go on back to your seat. I've business
here."

There was still coffee in her cup. She grabbed it and drank rapidly, almost choking. Pa's
fingers were tapping impatiently on the tablecloth by the time she'd swallowed the last drop.

When she stood up, so did the men across the table. Pa didn't.

* * * *

They arrived in Cheyenne late on the second day. As she was stumbling toward the
vestibule on feet so cold they didn't want to work, she heard someone say the train was three
hours late. The icy wind that met her as she stepped down to the platform made her wish it had
been on time. Wouldn't it have been warmer in the daytime?

Inside the station, she collapsed gratefully on a bench while Pa talked to a man behind a
brass-barred window. He was mad, and the longer they talked, the madder he got. She couldn't
hear what they said, but decided it didn't matter anyway. She'd learn soon enough where they
were headed next.

Why didn't I tell him I wanted to stay in Virginia City? He couldn't have forced me
to come, could he?

Mrs. Flynn had said she had to go because she wasn't of age yet. But she would be,
come Christmas. Leastways she thought she would. Wasn't eighteen a woman grown?

How much duty does a daughter owe her folks, anyhow? Don't they owe her
something in return?
Those were ungodly thoughts and she quickly banished them.

After a few minutes, she heard him swear. Fingers crossed, she hoped he wouldn't take
his anger out on her. The bruise around her eye had faded, but was still tender.

He was digging in his pocket when he came back to her. His hand came out, holding
coins and a couple of crumpled bills. "Here, take this. You're on your own 'til I come back.
Shouldn't be more'n a week." He picked up the valise he'd left with her and stared to walk
away.

"Pa? Wait!"

"What?"

"Where are... What am I supposed to do?" She looked down at the money he'd handed
her. Two dollar bills and half a dozen coins. One was a five dollar piece, but the rest were silver
and copper. No more than eight dollars in all. "Where will I stay?"

"Find a place. Get yourself work. You can't expect me to take care of you all the time."
Without a word of farewell, he strode to the door and disappeared into the night.

The station agent was a nice man. He let her stay in the station until morning.

* * * *

Eight weeks after leaving Dodge City, Merlin rode into Denver. He'd climbed
three-quarters of the way up the mountain they called Pike's Peak, nursed a homesteader with a broken
leg until he could hobble around on his own, and spent near a week in a snow cave when winter
swept down from the peaks as he was making his way out of the Rockies.

Denver was a mighty fine city, but it looked to be a lot quieter than Dodge had been.
He'd heard Colorado was going to be a state soon and some said Denver was to be the capital.
Maybe next year was the word he'd heard in some saloon or other, if Congress would get off its
collective arses.

For the first time since he'd ridden out of Dodge City, he was glad to see other folks.
Before anything else, he got himself a room in a hotel with indoor plumbing.

What the day was didn't matter much to him. When he heard church bells somewhere,
he decided it must be Sunday, which explained the lack of traffic on the streets. There was a bath
house next to the hotel, so he took advantage of it. Got himself a shave too, and vowed to buy a
new pair of socks to replace the ones he'd wore holes in, first thing on Monday.

Maybe while he was here, he'd look up that woman Buff and Silas were acquainted
with. Tilly Something-or-Other. "Bet if I ask about high-class bawdyhouses, I'll find her, "he
mused as he turned off the gaslight.

The next morning he took himself over to the Post Office to see if there was any held
mail for him. When he'd sent the telegram from Dodge City, he'd let the folks know where he
was heading.

"Lachlan? I did see something with that name," the clerk said, when asked. He turned to
a wall full of cubbyholes. "Lachlan. Yes, here 'tis." Pulling a bundle of envelopes from a
well-stuffed cubby, he checked their addresses.

"Merlin Lachlan?"

"That's me."

"Then these are all yours. 'Pears you've got a sight of readin' to do."

"I'm obliged," Merlin said, taking them. He restrained his curiosity until he was
outside.

Most of the envelopes were from his folks, but there was one from Regina and one from
Iris. The return address on the forwarded one with foreign stamps was illegible, but his name was
carefully printed. He reckoned it was from his older brother. Buff's handwriting was a caution.
He crammed the bundle into the pocket of his duster and headed toward the hotel. He had all
afternoon to spend on his mail, before he went out to see what Denver had to offer after dark.
Maybe he'd have dinner sent up, with a pint of brandy. After more than a year of living rough, he
felt like enjoying a little luxury. He hadn't slept on ironed sheets since he left New Orleans.

Later, replete with rare steak and creamy mashed potatoes, he leaned back against a pile
of pillows and started with the oldest letters first. Ma and Pa were well, and starting to plan their
trip to Australia. He reread the paragraph where Ma said they were thinking to come home the
long way, through Europe. She'd a hankering to see Rome and Paris.

He had to chuckle. His ma had always said she was done with traveling, but he guessed
trains and steamships were a far cry from covered wagons.

Buff was in England, still working for the Coalition, but he was setting up an office of
Dewitt Shipping there, too. The kids were fine. There would soon be a fourth little Lachlan. He
chuckled when he saw the P.S.
Silas says we'll change the name of the company to D&L
Shipping if I don't manage to run us into bankruptcy. He's given up hoping Tony will take
over.

Hard to imagine Buff a daddy, after the adventurous life he'd led for so long.

Regina had decided to stay in college, even though she'd graduated once. What good all
that education would do her, he hadn't a notion, but he wished her well. Iris now planned to study
economics, whatever that was. He had a feeling she'd get tired of it within a year, just as she had
science and mathematics, literature and philosophy. His littlest sister was smart as a whip, but
had a butterfly mind, flitting from subject to subject, never staying with one for any time at all.
Nobody said what Rhys was up to, which he was afraid meant his younger brother was raising
hell instead of minding his studies.

There was another letter from his ma, not nearly so fat as the first one. It was
postmarked just last week. Curious he opened it and started reading.

...strangest thing, but I thought it might be important. We didn't get it for near
a week after it came, because it was addressed wrong, but when Randy Strange
came back from his trip to San Francisco, he figured out real quick that it had to
be for us.

I'm sure it's really for you, because I can't make head nor tail out of it. That's
why I'm sending you the telegram just as we got it. If it's not yours, send it back,
and I'll let Randy figure out who's suppose to get it.

He pulled the folded yellow sheet from the envelope. The words meant nothing at first,
until he got to the last two words. Cal Smith.

Great God. Cal. I can't believe--
He read again, this time forcing himself to
make sense of what he saw.

What sense he could, anyhow. The message was so cryptic it seemed nonsensical at
first. Then he forced himself to think about what it didn't say.

That father of hers was a bad man. He'd realized that much in the few minutes before the
man had all but run him off. A hard man and a mean-spirited one.

He'd never forgotten the expression of loss he'd seen in Cal's eyes as he'd left her alone
with him. Oh, yes, she'd been where she'd traveled a thousand miles to be, but Merlin hadn't been
convinced then--or yet--that he should have left her with the man.

He laid the telegram on his thigh and leaned back against the headboard. Cheyenne. It
was what? Less than two hundred miles away. He'd no compelling reason to stay in Denver,
nothing beyond curiosity and a hankering for bright lights and fancy women.

Nothing he couldn't live without.

There was a calendar hanging on the wall beside the door. He walked over and
contemplated it.

If he left in the morning, he and Gawain could be in Cheyenne by Christmas.

The next day he bought supplies and loaded up for another journey. The gelding made it
clear he didn't hanker to go anywhere but back to his feed trough.

"Settle down, there," Merlin told him, when he went to buck. "We both know I'll win
this war."

Sure enough, within a mile Gawain was stepping out just like he had places to go, mares
to see.

* * * *

Cheyenne surely didn't look like much, for all its reputation as a shipping center. He
checked Gawain into a livery stable, got advice on a decent but not fancy hotel, and started in the
direction the hostler pointed. Just after he cleared the door, the man said, "Afore I forget, we ain't
gonna be open tomorrow, 'less you make special arrangements. Not much call for stock on
Christmas."

"No worry. I figure to have myself a good dinner, maybe a bath, and not go anywhere
for a spell" He stopped, looked back at the hostler. "Where's the best place to eat?"

"I fancy the Bijou Café myself. It's a block west of the Platte Hotel."

"I'm obliged." Shouldering his saddlebags and slinging his rifle, he strode along the
street toward the hotel. A familiar excitement sizzled inside him. There was an adventure out
there, just waiting for him.

But first he had to find Cal.

A week later he was wondering if the telegram had been a hoax, even though he couldn't
figure how. Or why.

Nobody he questioned had heard of a Lemuel Smith. Nobody knew about anybody new
in town with an interest in a saloon, a bawdyhouse or a card room. He'd described Smith as best
he could, from his memory of six years ago, and all he'd got back were headshakes and shrugged
shoulders.

Worse, his questions about a girl with coal black hair and eyes as green as spring leaves
had gone just as unanswered. After the third time he'd been taken for a pimp, he started
explaining he was seeking a runaway sister. Some folks even believed him and tried to help.