Regret
by Edward Nickus
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REGRET
By Edward Nickus
Published by Edward Nickus at Smashwords.
Copyright 2011 by Edward Nickus, all rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without the written permission of the author. All characters and locations within this work are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or places is entirely coincidental.
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Dedicated to the desperation that got it started.
PART 1
CHAPTER 1
The Mississippi River is more than 2350 miles of continental drainage ditch, flows about 1160 miles as the crow flies and for dreamers, the direct route to adventure, romance and, they frequently hoped, a quick and easy buck. For the absolute and raving capitalist, the river opened the continental interior to exploitations of every stripe. Immigration led to development, which opened the doors to anyone willing to take advantage of the dreams of those who were involved in the national obsession of the time: Manifest Destiny. Go West young man, whatever the cost. Ignorance was indeed bliss. Like ants away from the nest exploring in the garden, there were hazards.
The river's been called many things by many people: "The Nation's Aorta," "The Beginning of the Frontier," "Big Muddy," and others; some flattering, some not. Its more notable tributaries include the Platte rivers, North and South forks splitting the plains to the west; the Missouri and the Ohio Rivers, each with unexplored territories attached. This story is but one of millions in which the Mississippi played a role.
From the middle of the 18th century on, the variety of crafts plying the route was outnumbered only by the differences in the people who used it, and the cargoes that depended upon its perpetual motion. There were the Native Americans and the trappers with their canoes and rafts and flatboats. These vessels were of literally innumerable sizes and shapes. Construction materials ranged from stretched hides to the finest hand carved and elaborately decorated imported teak. There were the boats used by the freshwater privateers. They were propelled by pole-men lining the sides of the craft, each with a pole about twenty feet in length and able to, in concert with its mates, propel the flat boat in the calmest of waters to speeds nearly equal to those of the swiftest canoe. These craft held to the shallows, manned either by local operators, or by river pirates always on the lookout for the weak, the unprepared, the under-defended, the unwary, and those of wavering desire.
As the population along the continent's eastern seaboard burgeoned and civilization's requirements became more pervasive, human flotsam wafted to the west along with sturdy pioneer stock seeking more room and fewer problems featuring legal entanglements. As time passed, populations swelled the river's banks. At the outset of the river's heyday, that is, at the beginning of the 19th century, water traffic was as thick as fleas on a hound dog. This included commercial barges taking the continent's raw materials down to the French port of New Orleans and bound for ports worldwide.
The boat traffic was instrumental in the sowing of the Great Louisiana Territory and the world beyond. Anything that was available on the eastern seaboard was gaining markets throughout the continent. Although one might have to wait as long as six months or more for delivery, the market was there and was growing faster every day. St. Louis to New Orleans was now comparatively easy and fairly inexpensive. Then, along came the farmers.
As commercial traffic increased on the river, so did travel in general. No longer was relocation to the country's interior the province of adventurers and miscreants. As the increase in river-born commerce grew, so did ideas about opportunity.
This entire rococo thread loaded thousands and thousands of people aboard those triple decked, twin stacked, ornately appointed, stern wheeled floating palaces that ran the length of the river for more than one hundred years hitting a multitude of stops carrying passengers, cargo, and anything else that someone thought would enlarge their own personal fortunes.
Along with the growing, river-based economy came those whose ambitions were a little less morally and ethically oriented. They were the general group of gamblers and other pirates who, for one reason or another, were ejected from societies around the world. Some were liars. Some were cheats. In virtually every case, "something for not very much" was the goal. For those who succeeded, their version of "something" could turn into a veritable king's ransom. The prevailing hope was to hit the big one…just once.
In the early days of the river's growth, the traffic upon its surface outreached even the vaguest notion of the law and its enforcement. Still very much a part of the frontier, there was simply no way the thinly strung military postings could monitor anything outside their immediate physical presence. Even then, no one could be two, or two hundred, places at the same time. As a result, there were frequent episodes of hijacking that occurred over the length of the river. The only real recourse available to anyone using the river was to arm themselves to the teeth.
The armaments of choice varied from the family's trusty old squirrel gun, inherited from an ancestor, all the way up to the latest in cannon. Still, the best defense was found to travel in numbers. A single family setting out to settle the western territories with dreams of freedom easily fell prey to one or more of the many varieties of river-riding vermin working the banks of the "Big Muddy." Larger groups usually survived with only small losses of life and property. Fortunately for the river rats, it was almost an entire generation before word got around and travelers began considering road agents and river pirates in their travel plans.
As the years passed, thieves learned that there would have to be improvements in their methodology if they wanted to continue to reap rewards from the unwary. While the lowest of life forms still scoured the shoreline for the unable, the discouraged or the unawake, heavier thought and greater organization was being utilized at other levels. Home bases appeared for the marauding bands. There were entire cities that would aid and abet because the town's main income was derived from their successes. The quest was for a high return against a minimum investment; same game, different clothes.
Of course, greed didn't limit itself to those who had less and wanted more. White collar crime has been a fully functional portion of the civil equation from the beginning. "You got it. I want it." It was a simple formula and it was difficult to find someone on the river who didn't subscribe.
Oddly enough, the less there was to gain from any particular enterprise, the more violence was involved in the procedure. Truly meager amounts of money would set a pack of river pirates upon an unsuspecting family whose sole hopes were of a better life in a land to the south and west of the known world that they had just about already given their all to leave. Whereas, thousands could be made simply by contorting a few ledgers in an office somewhere, including enough for the several people required to cover up the activity.
CHAPTER 2
The Springer family of Philadelphia is a good example. Howard Springer was a big, burly sort of a man with rough features and hands of iron developed through years of working with brick and mortar. His wife Clara was no better educated than most working class women of the time. Her sole duties were within the home, tending the house itself, and caring for their three children. Wilhelmina, the eldest, was a demure but strong sixteen years of age, already taking over many of the household chores with her own home and family constantly in the foreground of her thoughts. Regret was thirteen and wavered between being a deadly tease and being a hermit with her thoughts in the sky. Little Jeremy was a six year old surprise. He was into everything, all the time.
Howard's family had come to the new nation at the turn of the century, during the first great migration. Europe was overcrowded and already straining its agrarian base. It seemed like you couldn't get through a whole day without someone or something making some kind of unexpected impact on your well-ordered and completely satisfying life.
The Springer family had been masons for as long as anyone in the family cared to take the time to remember. There was actually some metal working in the past, but a few burns too many had caused some forefather or other to make the switch.
Howard Springer had been the first of his family actually born in the new United States. His father had settled the family far enough outside the town and made certain they had staked enough land upon which to base the family's own brick works. The family operated the business from beginning to end, cutting out several middle men. It was the consternation of this group that caused Howard Springer to pack up kith and kin and head west. That and the fact that he was just plain tired of the trade. He'd decided, over the remonstrations of the rest of the family, that farming was the thing to which a real man should devote his life. So, with his three brothers running the business while the old man counted his money, Howard, Clara, Wilhelmina, Regret, and Jeremy took the Springer gene pool out into the North American frontier.
Their destination undetermined at the outset, Howard knew there was plenty of room out west because he'd been reading about it in Harper's magazine. The trip to St. Louis was generally uneventful. Clara became a shrew. Wilhelmina whined only while awake. Regret started a fight between a couple of boys. Jeremy got into the poison ivy in Kentucky. The wagon achieved two broken wheels that were repaired with the help of others in their party. But, mostly, the trip was uneventful. Then came the river and the choices it presented.
They had set up their camp in the midst of what to Howard seemed like thousands of others who had much the same idea as he. Open discussions could be heard at almost any time of the day or night regarding the various options available to travelers at that time and place. It was mostly hearsay. It was also about the only news there was. The occasional available newspaper was filled generally with news from back east. Besides, since Howard knew nothing at the outset, he felt he was gaining an enormous education regarding the workings of pioneers in the new American Wilderness.
Just about the time Augustine Taylor showed the world that two-by-fours were just fine for framing houses, somebody started filling Howard Springer's mind with Texas.
The abundance of pecan trees notwithstanding, Texas of that time had much to offer the pioneer. There were fertile fields as far as one could see, generally plenty of water for animals and crops, and space for everyone…except the natives and the Mexicans. These last two groups would provide problems aplenty for visitors and settlers for a good portion of the coming century.
It was to this promised land Howard Springer became intent upon replanting his brood. It was a fate-filled decision because even though Howard had listened intently to the information flowing around the traveler's common campground, and to stories told around the city, he, like too many before him, was simply unprepared. Howard's dream included mounting the family's wagon on a raft, floating as far as Natchez, then trading the raft for oxen or mules to drag them deep into their own personal dreamland. "Where" turned out to be the easy part. "How" became something of a conundrum for the whole family.
They had been encamped, with the rest of the dreamers, just outside St. Louis for the entire winter. Howard had gotten a part-time job at the local brick works, Clara took in some sewing, and the children had gotten their own worlds into some semblance of order. Wilhelmina was in love. Regret was harder than ever to find. Jeremy learned that there were some animals in the forest that just didn't want to be friends.
Wilhelmina had made the acquaintance of a group about her same age at the Methodist church they'd begun attending while awaiting the thaw. She attended Sundays of course, and usually Wednesday nights, which were more informal and designed for young people; a little Bible study, a little mingling. Also in this group was a young man named Clayton Higgenbotham. He was a twenty-one year old high school graduate and clerk at one of the mercantiles downtown. He was six feet tall, always wore a suit, and Wilhelmina was in love. When her father announced his plans for the family, she collapsed and wouldn't come out of the wagon…period.
When the roots begin to grow, no matter how briefly, it becomes much more difficult to displace the plant. The same is true of most people. Breaking the bonds of familiarity can be a traumatic experience for any family. That's especially true for the children whose life experiences are generally limited. They lack the perspective that's sometimes needed to achieve understanding. They crave stability while attempting to break the bonds themselves. The family was their social safety net. The talk and the promises can be of a better house, a better school, better weather, more money, new friends, basically a better deal all around. It doesn't matter. But, talk is cheap and those who have been around the least seem to have some sort of uncanny insight regarding pigs in pokes. On the other hand, you will easily find people who have been around but are just flat dumb, or are blinded by some inner light. These are the ones who, like Howard Springer, will just ignore some important fact or two and plunge ahead like the bull into the torero's sword. Tell the Howard Springers of the world about river pirates, land locked thieves, white water, tornadoes, angry natives, shysters and shylocks. In return you'll receive a wink and a nod and a short but sure response.
"It'll never happen to me."
"Heard about it. But, I ain't seen it."
"We ain't carryin' enough of anything that'll get us robbed."
"They're just tryin' to scare you away 'cause they know there's big money to be made out there."
"Pig-headed" would be an appropriate term. Although many of the people who made the cross-country or down-river treks were made of truly stern stuff, some even well-educated, it was almost impossible to stem the tide of righteous intention. Off they would go, hell-bent for wherever. Ask one of them about this "Oregon" for which they were bound and their eyes would gloss over and they'd begin speaking of gossamer skies, fields of wheat stretching as far as the eye could see, and kindly neighbors who lived nearby…but not close enough to make you feel crowded. Ask them about anyplace to the west or south and you'd think you were listening to a representative from that area’s visitor's bureau. There'd be a lot of "High and Mighty's" and virtually no payments to be bothered with. Even those with their feet planted firmly upon Mother Earth couldn't begin to guess the trials, tests, and hardships that would be encountered along their way. This was especially true for the women. Already faced with an opposite sex, frequently their mate, intent upon single ownership and operation of the enterprise, the exterior forces that came into play truly complicated the traveler's gumbo.
So it was that spring when Howard Springer continued to.push his retinue from the solid banks of their lives in Philadelphia, out into his own personal river of destiny.
It was not a painless departure, however; Wilhelmina opted for a hasty wedding to her Clayton the day before. Clara cried, and Regret was gloomy at the prospect of having to work that much harder and being able to spend less time in the world she had created for herself. Howard's thoughts centered around the saved weight and space on the craft, and Jeremy ignored the whole thing, happy to finally get moving again.
Howard had help in the construction of their vehicle from a few of the local veterans and, although it was a bit top-heavy, it was deemed solid enough for their proposed excursion. The plan was to float during the day and camp at night. As a safety measure, and for a little mutual assistance, Howard had found another family whose travel intentions nearly matched his.
Their name was McGraw. They were a family of five. Hiram McGraw had been a farmer in New York when he and his wife Martha made the decision to pack it up and head west. The McGraw children were: David, age twelve, Colin, aged nine, and Donald, who was six.
In fact, the McGraws were something of a catalyst to the Springers' plans. Howard's timidity had already stuck the family in that camp longer than had been planned, and it had cost him a daughter in the bargain. The McGraws had arrived just after the ice on the river had broken. Since Hiram had, in his mind, neither time nor interest in waiting, they shoved off within two weeks of the McGraws' arrival in the camp.
Except for Wilhelmina, who was already wondering about her decision, and with their two rafts lashed together, a Conestoga riding each, the two families resumed their quest for a better life.
Howard and Hiram worked the paddles and rudders while Clara and Martha supervised the shipboard duties. The boys could be found just about anywhere on the vessel at any given moment, but Regret could be counted upon to be along the scuppers staring into the water, watching the whirls and swirls for some sign of her own private future.
Though they had been instructed by some claiming to have some experience in the matter, it was the third night before Howard and Hiram could actually land their less than agile craft without some incident wrinkling the fabric of their journey. One such incident occurred the evening of March 4th. That was the night Donald McGraw would die.
The rafts had been traveling at a high rate of speed courtesy of the annual runoff. This included quantities of eddies continually making their landing something of a question for everyone on board. Normally, with the men at the fore and aft positions and everyone else frantically paddling with some sort of flat thing in order to send the vessel in some preferred direction, and taking into account their relatively shallow draught, they would just sort of sidle the beast up to the shoreline. David would jump to the beach and tie the first line to the biggest tree he could find which would hold things long enough for the men to truly secure the weight of their barge against whatever current was close to the shoreline. It normally took about 45 minutes from the center of the river to the time they were actually as moored for the night.
While the men inspected the raft for flaws, the women would set up camp for the evening. The boys would find something to get away with and Regret, after helping the women set up, would frequently walk downstream to sit on the bank dreaming her dreams.
At the time, "boys will be boys" was an accepted antidote for a myriad of transgressions. The boys had taken to rising and disappearing into the local scenery once everyone else had fallen asleep. Regret did the same occasionally, but always on her own. The first night out they had felt somewhat obliged to stay in bed, but that feeling waned as quickly as the signs of civilization. Normally, they were only out for a couple of hours because time on the river, combined with their daily chores, affected even the young and vital eventually.
This night the boys were seated along the riverbank on a horseshoe shaped bench, dangling their feet about ten feet above the eddy that passed the shoreline about a hundred yards above where the raft was beached. They were staring at the reflection of the moon on the water and discussing their futures. An argument had broken out among the group as to whether Jeremy could persuade his sister to let them all have a look beneath her skirts. Eventually that argument, like so many other petty differences, waned. Time flowed with the current. The boys were in close formation along the bank. First there was David, then Colin, then Jeremy, then Donald.
Colin elbowed Jeremy. Jeremy retaliated, knocking him into David who returned the favor with something of an emotional boost. This sent Colin into Jeremy, who slammed into Donald, who then slipped into the moonlit wonderment below.
Mr. McGraw found his youngest son twisted in the ropes securing the raft the next morning. That changed everything. Everyone was guilty.
Following Donald's burial, the trip continued, mostly in silence. Things had to be done and proper grieving had to wait its turn.
Regret snorted, blushed, and found a private location when the talk turned to her marriage prospects in their new home. The men calculated, cussed and steered. The boys resumed their adventures, in a more sedate manner. At last, they camped about a half day's ride above the city of Natchez. Their plans put them at their target point the following day with plenty of time allowed for doing the necessary business and setting out for their own tomorrows without having to feel pressed.
Pierre LeDoux was a really bad man. The group he led was, to a man, really bad. They were, each and every one, liars, cheats, thieves, killers, users, and destined for hell at an unmatched pace.
When the pirates fell upon the travelers as they slept, there was no resistance. The very next day the marauders made more than $3000 selling what was left of the two family's futures. This included the money they had found hidden aboard the raft. Most of the possessions stayed on the rafts at night and so were tightly packed and ready to be moved to market.
Regret had been out on one of her nightly excursions when LeDoux himself had introduced her to the jack. She was bound and gagged and left to witness the massacre just yards away in silence.
Then there was nothing.
Along with the inference of daylight came Regret's confusion as to why everything hurt so much. She had no idea why she could feel nothing but pain. She thought she was moving as she was bouncing around inside what seemed to be a wooden box, but she hadn't the faintest notion as to where or why.
LeDoux had gotten an extra $1200 for her from a New Orleans pimp in town for an annual poker game with some old drinking and thieving friends. The flesh peddler had won more than $6000 that weekend and he looked on his purchase of Regret as just another investment during his trip to the north.
They called him Heavy Harold. This had much to do with the three hundred plus pounds he carried on his five foot four inch frame. He was the owner/operator of "Heavy Harold's Happiness Emporium" in the fabled port of New Orleans. More than twenty girls, each trained in some sensual specialty, worked for him there. Though he hadn't planned on adding to his stable while in Natchez, he wanted to impress his counterparts in that community with his attitude of impunity at spending money and, in his drunken state, just couldn't resist Regret.
She was tall for her age, bronzed by her outdoor life, with long dark hair, large brown eyes, and a body lithe as a wisp of spring air. These were Harold's images on his drunken way home while staring at the drugged body lying across from him in the coach.
Things played somewhat differently for Regret. Before she opened her eyes, she took a personal inventory. Her first impression was of movement. She was scrunched up onto a bed of what seemed to be leather, going backwards, she thought. Then came the dull ache. She began at her toes and worked her way up. She hurt just about everywhere. She could feel a coolness in the air and she acted on her decision to look just a little. Everything was confirmed. She discovered that she was indeed stuffed onto the leading seat inside a carriage across from a grotesquely obese man who snored loudly enough to wake the dead or disable the living. He had been drooling for some time.
As her senses cleared, Regret lay on the seat watching the man's spittle slowly descend to where his belly protruded, passing through a stream of sunlight on the way. She watched the light play on the effluvium and tried to remember.
The boys had calmed down following their final foray into the wilderness and she, unable to sleep among the night sounds as usual, had decided to stroll. She missed her sister, even though they had never been close. She felt sorry for the McGraws, even though that tragedy hadn't been allowed to deeply affect her own private world.
She tried moving her arms and legs, but they were tied tightly and her efforts only made things worse. The ache in her head was something beyond words. She'd had the occasional headache. This was different. The taste in her mouth was worse than a bad dream. How long had it been? She fell back to sleep more dazed and confused than ever.
"Who dis, Massa Harol'?" It was a woman's voice.
"Huh?" Harold had to look. "Oh. I got her from LeDoux." He stumbled out of the carriage toward what seemed to be the door to a brick building. "See she gets put together, Hattie. But, keep an eye on her. She may run."
"Yassuh," Hattie replied as she looked Regret over. "Ya wants I should lock her up fo' ta-night?"
"Probably ought to," came the reply as the mound passed out of sight. The exchange came to Regret through a tired and hungry fog.
"My goo’ness sakes 'live, chile. Yo' sho' looks used up," Hattie said sweetly. She knew a shanghai when she saw one. "You comes wiff me. We'll get you clean up nice."
"Can you take these off?" Regret choked as she fell out of the coach into Hattie's grasp.
"Sho’ 'nough, chile," was the answer. Hattie knew the ropes were rubbing her charge raw, but she was experienced in the introduction of the younger ones to the life. Regret would learn the business thoroughly before she would be allowed to join in the trade and she hung on Hattie's every word.
Not really understanding what had happened to her world, Regret began her employment at the Emporium by scrubbing the place, beginning with the spittoons and working her way up the walls and draperies, finishing with the ceilings. She was charged with changing the bed linens and was awed at the disparity between Harold's bed and the rest. Hattie explained that such was the case because the others were just "tem'prary".
All the girls had rooms of a decent size; about eight by ten, with a small dresser, a small closet, a "personal" corner, and of course, a bed. These rooms were constantly in a state of disarray, the extent depending on the day's successes. The highest grosser had the finest room. Since most of the women who worked for Harold also lived at the house, there was always something going on.
Under Hattie's firm but kind tutelage, the time became benign. She was as safe as any woman in New Orleans could be. She had as much food as she could eat. She had to work hard, it's true, but not as hard as some. Through the diversity of the employees at Harold's, and since everyone liked her, Regret's education was nearly complete and uniquely esoteric.
CHAPTER 3
That Harlingame Hansen was born is an undeniable fact. His tracks led from the East. He "did his time" at an orphanage in Baltimore until he was thrown out for something someone else did. He never was the most sociable child in the place anyway, so he saw the eviction as an opportunity to do something that he wouldn't have been allowed to do for another two years. He had been thinking that he should be getting out of that place and starting his life. In his mind, he saw the door open to the western frontier. Dime novels had been passed around the orphanage freely and while he knew he wasn't a mountain man or probably even a cowboy, he firmly believed he could strike it rich out west. He'd read that the streets were paved with gold in a place called California. It was clear over on the Pacific Ocean. He figured he could get there no later than November.
Harley had stuffed all he had into a gunny sack, taken the $5 they gave him to get started, and set off. There hadn't been a lot of planning involved, choosing what to take, and what to leave behind. He took everything. His pack included: an extra pair of socks (stolen from Frank Thurlow), an extra pair of trousers (traded for with Willie Brown), one oil cloth about 6'x6' (taken from the shop foreman's office), and an additional $6 stolen from the administration office the night before. Harley figured $11 would get him as far as the Mississippi River where, he figured, he could hire on with someone and work his way across the plains. Harley had no real idea regarding the distance to the river, nor really its actual magnitude. Work, not education, was the primary concern at the orphanage. Except for the notion that west would be the general direction he'd be going, he was walking into places where his $11 would impress no one.
As it happened, the oil cloth was the best move. It rained every step of the way. At least it seemed that way to Harley. He decided to go mostly barefoot to save on shoe leather. He'd read about the snow covered passes and he'd read about at least one desert between himself and this place called California. After only a few days on the road, he realized his money wasn't going to make the whole trip.
Lady luck smiles when she damn well feels like it and she grinned broadly upon Harlingame Hansen somewhere in Ohio. He actually thought he'd been doing pretty well, all in all. A few odd jobs on farms along the way had kept him fed and out of the rain as he slept. All he got, everywhere, when the subject of his destination arose during conversation with his various benefactors regarding the best route, was admonition. So, rather than listen to the experienced and mature, he just kept putting one foot in front of the other and the miles just seemed to be taking care of themselves.
As he topped a low ridge late one sunny afternoon, he found just what he had been hoping to encounter. What was in reality just well-worn and in places, terribly muddy, was a superhighway to Harley. There was even a bonus. A wagon train stretching to the horizon, looking like a caterpillar as the individual parts wobbled their way into the setting sun, was in transit. As it worked out, by the time Harley had reached the assemblage, they were just bedding down for the night. After a few questions, Harley found himself facing the wagon master. He was a large, hard-looking man, not at all pleased about having his duties interrupted by a stray cat.
The leader of the pilgrims beheld a particularly dirty countenance. He was, however, impressed by the boy's persistence, so he allowed him to work for food under the condition that he cause no trouble among the paying customers. Things went very well for about four days. Then, he saw her.
During all his years at the orphanage, Harley had heard stories about them, but he'd never really had anything actually to do with them. A couple of the farmers who allowed him to do a little work for them on his journey tried to get him to take a daughter or two off their hands. They were mostly, however, foreign objects about which Harley knew nothing.
He was out scavenging wood for the evening fires. She was by herself, sitting in a field of buttercups, staring out across her own dreamscape. She said her name was Regret and that she was forced to leave a perfectly good home against her will. He told her about his abrupt departure from Our Lady of the Inquisition. She was impressed by his traveling so far alone. He couldn't look away from her eyes. The entire next week included daily clandestine meetings in the wilderness which, to his way of thinking, were a good reason to try to stay with the train all the way to St. Louis.
Then her father stepped in. He didn't want his daughter straying away from the general camp, alone and unprotected, especially since she and Harley had arranged the majority of their rendezvous after dark. He assigned, much to the chagrin of Regret's older sister Wilhelmina, nineteen year old Billy Clagg to "keep an eye on her." Wilhelmina had been flirting with Billy. Regret had no use for him and expressed this feeling to Harley.
It had begun with words. It ended when Harley moved Billy's nose around to the right side of his face, a detail that did not go unnoticed by the wagon master. Lady Luck is such a butterfly.
Regret would haunt Harley for the rest of his lonely trek. Although exile was nothing new to Harley, he was inwardly loathe to separate from the others. There had been an element of security that he had never known, even though he was just an odd-jobber. As the days passed, he could occasionally see the train off in the distance; their fires at night glowing. He imagined it was her leaving the bits of bread and such for him to find. Unbeknownst to Harley, at night Regret would scan the horizon for his firelight.
Angry that the dispute with that Clagg kid had gotten him booted from the company, and disgusted with himself for, a) getting all goofy over some woman, and b) being grateful for the morsels of food being left for him along the train, he decided to leave the main line.
A little bit of this, a little bit of that, step after step, that way instead of this, he walked mostly in a daze, mostly to the west. As he topped a ridge, he could see, two or three days walk in the distance, the river. From where Harley stood gazing upon the silver ribbon and the lands beyond, in his mind he was already there. The past weeks on the road, both alone and with the company, disappeared. But the sun was setting, the day had been long, the hills many, and his bed roll was a most welcome thought as he opened it over some tall weeds.
CHAPTER 4
The sights and sounds of the city surrounded him and his hunger was temporarily forgotten. This was definitely not Baltimore.
Harley's life hadn't been entirely wasted as he grew up in "Our Lady of Confusion." In fact, once they could actually get around without a lot of trouble, every boy was used in the maintenance of the building, its grounds, and the feeding of everyone in the place. Occasionally there had been a small surplus from the school's little plot, and they had the opportunity to learn a bit about the marketplace. They literally learned by doing everything from pulling weeds to plowing a field, to doing the paperwork needed to run a business. Most of the boys could read and write at least a little, although there were a few who did better than others and so spent more time in the office than in the fields. However, cross the Sisters and you could all too quickly be getting in some extra practice with a shovel or hoe.
So it was with Harley. He had become proficient at mostly everything the school had to offer, so he felt he was well armed for the task of finding gainful employment just about anywhere. He figured that he could get a quick job, make a few bucks, and be in California within a year. The amount of time to actually get to California was something that, until his experience of the last few weeks, was somewhat different than real life. Rather than rankling over the loss of his "six weeks or so" dream, he allowed himself to be satisfied with his newest estimation of "about a year."
As he strolled with his meager luggage up to what he thought must be the main street in the city, he vowed not to be discouraged by a possible first few rejections. Twelve businesses later, Harley had to take a break. The reasons had been varied and sometimes creative: "I don't need no hep," "I don't want no hep," and his favorite so far, "You just fetch yerself outta here afore I plant my boot so far up yer ass you'll be diggin' shit out from betwixt yer teeth."
Harley plopped himself down on the shady side of the street, using up very little of the walkway. Even so, several not-too-sober individuals kicked their way by him cursing his presence as they passed. He just stared. Nothing was out there really, just weariness. He was tired. There was noise. He was resting, oblivious. As he sat occupying his own little haze, his eye rested upon a scene across the street at what appeared to be some kind of freight office. The sounds of a not too calm conversation wafted across the street to Harley's ears.
The story Harley thought he heard was that the driver of a wagon load of building materials and other household goods bound for a small town in Southern Colorado was refusing to make the trip alone. He didn't care about all the extra money. He wasn't going alone. The man doing the talking, apparently the driver, was standing next to the wagon in question, was sort of small to Harley's eye. He was maybe 5'5" tall, and he maybe carried 145 lbs. His sleeves were rolled up, disclosing a wiry toughness that came with long years as a driver. He was dusty from beard to boots. His occupation, coupled with his "bathe once a month if ya got to" attitude, made quite a picture.
What turned out to be fortunate for Harley was that the driver, and the other man who must have been station master or freight office manager, were taking quite a while to settle their dispute. It was quite some time before the idea fully germinated in Harley's head. When it finally came to him, he was on his feet and crossing the street in a single motion.
"I'll go," he stuffed into the middle of their argument.
"Oh, Christ," was followed by a brown stream of tobacco juice into the street not very far at all from where Harley's right foot was planted. The driver knew how easy it would be to meet the freight master's criteria as a "spare" driver.
"How old are you?" the agent asked Harley.
"Nineteen," Harley lied.
"Bullshit," said the driver.
"Can you drive?" asked the agent through a tough-to-hide veil of apprehension and urgency.
"Yes," answered Harley.
"Can you shoot?" The driver asked that question with a particular glare in his eye.
"Yes," Harley lied again, wondering why he would ask that.
"Five cents a mile at the end of the trip. That's about 800 miles, so that's $40 when you get there," blurted the freight master.
Halfway to California with $40 in his pocket was what Harley was thinking.
"Let's go," Harley looked at the mule skinner.
"It's settled then," said the agent. "What's your name, young man?"
"Harlingame Hansen," said Harley.
"Oh, Christ," said the driver.
"Harlingame, this is the company's best 'skinner…Crab Dates," called the agent as he sped off to something that must have been important.
"Pleased to meet you," Harley held out his hand.
"Bullshit," said the driver, sending another caramel torrent into the dirt at Harley's feet.
Harley guessed they had been on the road for the better part of three hours before he screwed up enough courage to say anything to the extra-surly and aptly named Crab, and that was only in response to a query.
"Where'd ya git a hell's-a-poppin' name like Whilyton, anyhow?" asked the driver while re-loading his cheek.
"Harlingame," came with a look of total surprise.
"Whatever," chewed the driver.
"I don't know," said Harley. "I came from an orphanage in Baltimore an' they gave it to me there. Everybody just calls me Harley." Harley was glad to be sitting upwind.
That was the entire conversation on the road that day.
"We'll stop here for the night," was all it took to get Harley up out of his seat and into the process of unhooking various pieces of harness.
"Ah'll git the rig. You start some coffee," sent Harley scurrying around collecting whatever scrub he could find to create a fire, which was woefully pitiful until Crab tossed a dried out buffalo chip onto it.
"City boy," was accompanied by another baleful stream of tobacco juice.
What Harley learned during the next couple of weeks on the road with this "plenty-experienced" old timer had Crab laughing to himself most of the time. When Crab had needed help, he had been saddled with this tin-horn kid. That the kid had picked up on virtually everything, virtually instantly, had Crab wondering if there might not be something a mite peculiar about this one, but he wasn't about to show anything more than disgust. His reputation depended on it.
While a good, organized campsite was something rather new to him, Harley could help with the driving right away, and he'd enjoy every minute of it. Pretty soon, Crab had Harley driving the whole time, while the 'skinner did day-long "eyelid inspections" on the mattress that was among the rest of the goods in transport.
The road to the blossoming town of Cojones was a simple one, mostly prairie with only a few small streams to deal with once they had crossed the Mississippi and the Platte. As the trip wore on, the conversations between Crab and the boy grew in length. The old dog and the young rooster weren't such a bad combination after all, it seemed. It was what happened about four days east of Cojones that really got old Crab's attention. It was here that Crab allowed that there might just be something out of the ordinary about this boy, for real.
They camped easy that night, leaving most everything except their sleeping and eating gear on the wagon. There was a storm coming across the prairie, bringing lightning and what appeared to be a flash flood problem with it. The animals were staked out atop a small rise along with the wagon. They didn't want to be in a hole if there actually was going to be a lot of water soon. They spent a few minutes reconnoitering an escape route, just in case.
They took pains to see that their merchandise was as well protected as they could arrange, then they set up their own shelter. It was just a couple of oil cloths draped over the side of the wagon, which in turn, served as their roof. But, during what appeared at the time as just a light rain in their general area, they thought it ample. You just couldn't really tell at first.
Harley was awakened by he knew not what. When he peeked out from under their make-shift tent flaps, there was nothing to see but black. Then the lightning danced and the surrounding plain was exposed. It was dark again by the time the thunder reached his ears. The "crack" was complicated with Crab's request for information and to deliver instructions to Harley to get back to sleep in preparation for the coming day.
"Hush!" came the whispered yet obviously urgent order from Crab a few moments later. It didn't look to Harley like he had even moved a muscle from where he had just moments ago been sleeping. He just lay there, on his belly, with his head turned away.
"Crab, what are…?" was cut off by a hand waving in Harley's face.
"Listen," Crab hissed.
All Harley could hear was his own breathing. After a moment, things began to sort: breath, heartbeat, wind, raindrops, agitated mules. Then Crab was up and gone. As he clambered out from under the wagon himself, something new appeared among all the noises. He felt it more than he heard it. It seemed to be coming through his feet.
Harley could see Crab re-tying and hobbling the mules. Turning to look out over the prairie, Harley was treated to the entire panorama by three tremendous bolts of dry lightning. In those seconds of illumination, Harley saw something that was on its way to becoming memories for the old, stories for the young, and incomprehensible to future generations. The lightning bolts had disclosed a landscape in motion. Harley barely heard the thunder roll over their campsite.
The annihilation of the Great North American Bison, much like the demise of the Native American, really only took about fifty years, both succumbing to the incursion from the east. There were at this time however, herds comprised of millions of the animals roaming the plains from Texas all the way up into Canada. It was a herd of just about that size that was presented to Harley as the lightning continued its intermittent appearances. It looked like a blanket, moving with no sure edge. The blanket seemed to be moving Harley's way, driven by the seemingly more frequent flashes of light and claps of thunder unlike anything he had seen or heard in Baltimore.
He could hear it positively now. It was a low rumbling, still as much in his feet as in his ears. He thought he could make out individuals as the herd continued to swarm. Suddenly he recognized that this boiling mass of fur and beast was heading right in their direction, the sound increasing with each blink of an eyelid.
Harley spun and ran to the other end of the camp only to find Crab on the ground, face down and still. At the notice of some blood on the side of the old skinner's head, Harley concluded that one of the mules had won the contest and he began the process of loading Crab into the wagon. The slight stature of his mentor helped out quite a bit. When the old man was tightly stowed in and among their charge, Harley did something that would be discussed around the region for years to come. He built a fire.
What a fire it was. By the time the stampede got to where a choice of direction had to be made, that is, straight through the camp, or down the ravine next to it, there was fire. Harley had combed the area surrounding the camp for wood of any size and type. The conflagration began with remnants of the evening's cook fire and grew with the addition of each element of scavenged fuel. Everything Harley could find went onto the pyre. What had begun with twigs and embers came to include all sizes and shapes of branches and even one six foot section of a dead tree trunk that had been down for ages. With the fire having grown to the approximate size of the entire campsite, wagon and all, Harley was out in front jumping up and down and waving his shirt and yelling at the top of his lungs.
It was probably a combination of the generally wooded rise on which they had set up camp and the fact that the ground sloped away from them that mostly caused the great river of animals to veer away from the exposed camp. But, whatever was responsible, veer away was what they did. During the height of the turmoil, Crab had regained himself just enough to witness the final act. He wasn't quite sure if he was dead and in hell or if that kid was really as loco as he seemed. Crab lay back down and checked through his own memories to see if he had ever heard of such a thing happening before. As a rule, you didn't just turn the herd in the middle of a stampede. Sorta one-way characters, buffalo; not too smart and usually not too concerned with whatever it was they just trampled.
As the last few hundred stragglers passed Harley's position on the point, the fire lit their profiles and Harley just sort of stopped all his hootin' and hollerin' and stared at the animals. He still hadn't come completely to grips with what had just taken place. It had taken the herd a full forty-five minutes, and more, to move past their position. He had been jumping up and down, yelling at the top of his lungs, unseen and unheard by the passersby, and he was plumb gassed. He sweat, he gasped, he rested his hands on his knees, and he still was unclear as to the magnitude of what he had just witnessed.
"Boy," came the voice behind Harley. "I weren't there when Moses parted the sea, but I sure as hell never even heerd o' the likes o' which I just seen this here minute ago."
"Huh?" Harley gasped
"Why, the way you turned them buff," cackled Crab, indicating glee with a certain version of a jig, and a stagger.
Harley looked toward the ebbing rumble and still wasn't entirely sure what had just happened. All he could see through his exhaustion was darkness and buffalo butts bouncing out of the reaches of the firelight.
"I don't know what made you do such a damn fool thing, boy, but I'm gonna see that you get paid extry," said Crab. "Why, if'n you hadn't-a done all-a yer catterwallin' an' sich, we'd be buzzard mush by now. An' that's not ta mention loss o' goods."
"Loss o' goods?" was about the best Harley could do while panting deeply.
"Well, shore!" said Crab rather incredulously. "'Cept'n fer our wages, this stuff is paid fer. An' they jist ain't no sich of a thing as insurance, out here."
Slowly coming out of his daze, Harley was staring at Crab and seeing buffalo. Crab was talking a blue streak, but all Harley could hear was buffalo. Buffalo by the ton, buffalo by the mile, buffalo on the hoof, far away eyes going that-a-way just as fast as those little legs would carry them. The image would stay with Harley for the rest of his life, and would live in the region for generations.
Harley hadn't spoken again as they settled the animals and flopped themselves into their own shelter for the night. Crab had slowed down considerably, too. He sort of ran out of words just about the time his excitement was overtaken by the pain in his head.
Was it thunder? Was it hooves? Are they coming back? Harley's semi-conscious condition was as close to sleep as he would accomplish that night.
Even though they ran across Indian tracks two different times, the rest of their journey was comparatively uneventful. Of course, after a buffalo stampede in a dry lightning storm, there are few things that could've gotten much more than a casual glance. Crab's head was getting heavier with each mile, and as they neared their destination, he spent more and more time on the mattress in the back of the wagon. Occasionally lucid, mostly unconscious, Crab just drifted the rest of the way into Cojones.
CHAPTER 5
Harley had no idea where to go with his load, so he ended up rolling the wagon all the way through the almost-a-town. It was really just a row of shanties and tents that would indeed, someday, be a town, until he reached what was passing as a livery/smithy. There he was instructed to turn around and go back to the other end of the street and talk to the town's new banker who could be found at the building site of the new bank. He was to ask for Mr. Octavius Mirabello. He was the manager of the new bank and the station master dealing with shipments coming into the town-in-the-making. He was just basically "in charge."
As Harley made his second pass through the not-yet-booming cow town of Cojones, Colorado, the mechanics of observation, as taught by Crab Dates, went to work. It's unclear why anyone would build a town so far out in the wilderness. There was nothing around for hundreds of miles, yet there were several buildings under construction here, and a dozen or so tents apparently serving as taverns or mercantiles. They were even building a new bank.
The town of Cojones was coming to be for several reasons. Cojones was at a geographical bottleneck for herds moving from the south and west, trappers coming out of the Rockies would use the village for trading, and there was talk of high grade mining prospects in the area. One group from New York had made the commitment to make it their own personal bonanza. For now, it was the cowboys and their drinking and gambling. Later, someone expected to make a lot of money from this enterprise. It should also be noted that, as many men as there were, even at this stage of the town's growth, there was a severe shortage of women. The few times that a woman had actually passed through town, there was either a husband or a scheduling problem, and there would invariably be a few fights. Someone might even be killed. But, in a town outside the law, that didn't matter much.
At the other end of this soon-to-be-town, the end Harley had entered, the end opposite the so-called livery, a work was in progress.
Mr. Mirabello was portly, balding, loud, and as Harley approached, mostly jovial in a "trying but failing" sort of way. He tried but failed to be witty. He tried but failed to be judicious. He tried but failed to be a leader. All of which culminated in a continual pain in his stomach which put a sort of sour look on his face no matter the direction of the conversation. Confusion was added to the mix as a wagon being driven by a boy pulled up in front of his new bank.
"Are you Mr. Mira…Mira…?" came the voice from the driver's seat.
"That's Mirabello, boy," said the banker, just waiting for another annoying delay, or something that was surely to drag his day even deeper into the failure pit.
"Mr. Dates needs a doctor an' here's all the stuff that was supposed to be delivered," said Harley in a quick way that let all his nervousness spill out.
Before the banker could respond, Crab hauled his battered self over the side of the wagon and landed on his back right at Mr. Mirabello's feet. As the old mule skinner tried to focus on the banker, Harley was trying to ease his predicament by keeping Crab's head out of the mud in the street.
"This boy saved yer goods from a stampede," croaked Crab. "Ya ought-a pay him extry."
"Stampede?" came out as the banker's eyebrows went up.
"Buffalo, sir," said Harley still dealing with a man who had neither plans for the future, nor need of any.
"Crab," said Harley in alarm. "Crab" came out a little louder with considerable concern attached. "Crab," yelled Harley. Then he looked up at the banker, "He ain't breathin'."
During the few days between his injury and their arrival in Cojones, a huge black and purple welt had formed on the right side of Crab's head. When he wasn't asleep, he was mostly delirious. Although Harley was saddened at the death of his mentor, one thing he had been taught was to recognize facts as facts.
CHAPTER 6
Harley was physically and emotionally exhausted as he gave his accounting of the trip to Mr. Mirabello. Mr. Mirabello had contracted to pay a $100 delivery fee upon the arrival of his supplies. Since he no longer had to pay Crab, he gave Harley an extra $20 over what the freight master in St. Louis had promised him and pocketed the extra $40.
Life was a maze to Harley. He was unsure how to properly mourn the loss of a friend and so was feeling a bit of guilt over perhaps not doing the right thing. He was also very happy to be what was, in his estimation, rich. He was also very happy to be this much closer to California…already!
Since there wasn't anything you could really call a hotel in the town, and even though Mr. Mirabello had suggested he stay at the banker's home and have a good meal prepared by Mirabello's Chinese servant, Harley wanted to stay out in the clear and clean as he'd been doing the past couple of weeks with Crab. So, with Mr. Mirabello's assistance, he put together a proper kit: bed roll, hunting knife in a scabbard, a small bore rifle and enough ammunition for a few misses, food for about a week, depending, and a mule. Harley liked the knife best. He'd seen it the minute they'd entered the store. It was under glass. It was about 14" long and must have weighed 3 lbs. The scabbard was heavy leather and it came with a belt so it could be worn handy.
Harley's search was for solitude. It wasn't that he was running away from anything, he just wanted to get away from crowds for a while. This was the boy from Baltimore thinking that Cojones was a crowded place. Crab had indeed had some effect on him during their trek. He set out to explore the hills to the north of the settlement. They weren't really hills, just huge piles of nearly round boulders sometimes reaching as high as a thousand feet. Harley felt he needed to do some planning and personal sorting, as he knew that his current situation was but a temporary one.
He made it about five miles out into the region for which the town was named and decided to set up his first camp alone. He planned to look around every corner during the next few days just to see what was there.
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