Every Hidden Thing (8 page)

“There's Mr. Powers just down the street,” Smitherman said.

Samuel nodded. “There. He'll take care of me, I'm sure.”

I bit my upper lip. “We've placed a fairly large order with him as well.”

He sagged a bit. “We'll be fine.”

To the shopkeeper and his boys I said, “The team's just outside. The driver and his man can help you load.”

“You're striking out today?” Samuel asked.

“To Fort Crowe first; it's several miles to the south. They've invited us to spend a day or two there.”

“Seems you'll have quite an escort. Where are you headed after that?”

The question was direct, his gaze intent.

“Why should I tell you that?”

“Like you said, what'll it change, since everyone has their plans made already?”

I glared at him; he glared back defiantly, like he'd won a victory.

“Fine,” I said. “North. Father says there's a big river valley and badlands where bone's been spotted. And you?”

Samuel didn't say a word. His face gave his reply.

I
WALKED INTO THE GLARE OF THE STREET,
furious
at my scatterbrained father. Why hadn't he telegraphed ahead for his order? Furious at myself, too. Why hadn't
I
thought ahead for him? But how could we've known our guide would betray us or that Cartland would land in Crowe at the same time? It was too cruel a coincidence. And our
rex
just sitting there, waiting to be discovered. Not picky about by whom.

Halfway down the street I met my father.

“No one's seen Plaskett today,” he reported. “And every horse in town is spoken for.”

“That'd be Cartland and his crew,” I said. “They bought up most of Smitherman's.”

We looked back as crate after sack was loaded onto the wagon.

“We should've ordered ahead,” I said accusingly.

“Plaskett was supposed to take care of all that,” my father replied tightly.

“Do you think we've been had?” I demanded.

“I'm not ready to entertain that possibility,” said Father.

“Listen,” I said. “I just talked to Rachel Cartland. They're headed to the exact same place we are.”

He stared at me, one hand gripping his beard.

“Badlands to the north. River valley. Cretaceous bones.” I nodded. “Plaskett's crossed us. Cartland's bought him off, or something, and he's working for
them
now.”

I couldn't stand still. Father followed as I headed toward Powers' Grocery. Panic pounded at my temples. We'd spent four days getting here. We'd been robbed. We had no guide. Still, we had to move, to try to find the
rex
before Plaskett lead them straight to it. I felt like something precious was being wrenched away from me.

Inside Powers' Grocery, the proprietor shook his head sadly. “I'd love to help you, gentlemen, but—”

“It can't all be spoken for,” my father protested, looking at the well-stocked shelves.

“The army was short supplied this month. They had to lean heavy on me and Mr. Smitherman. Good business for us, but not good for my other customers.”

Father straightened his stooped shoulders and said, “I am Professor Michael Bolt from Philadelphia, and I am on a scientific expedition of great importance.”

At this news the man looked almost suspicious. “Well, now, if I'd known you were coming, sir, I could've set something aside.” He began to whistle softly and look around his shop, like he was wishing we'd evaporate. “Maybe in a week or so, when I get my new stock in . . .”

Outside the shop I said, “There must be other places in town.”

But Father wasn't listening. He was squinting at a man limping down the middle of the main street.

“Who's this, then?” he muttered.

My eyesight was better than my father's. Whoever this fellow was, his trousers were caked so thickly with mud they were rigid as stovepipes. A buckskin vest hung crookedly on his shoulders; one sleeve had a big tear down it. A trampled wide-brimmed hat. A full white beard. He looked ancient. Leaning heavily on a stick, he was like a character plucked from the Bible. A half-mad prophet returning from the desert.

As he limped closer, I saw the stick was actually a long-handled pick. He was looking straight at us. I had the uneasy feeling he was coming our way. Likely he'd rant and rave and want to baptize us. Wearily he thrust a hand high, a gesture that looked as much like surrender as greeting.

“That's Ned Plaskett,” said Mr. Powers, who'd come out of his shop to stand beside us.

“Ah! Is it now?” said my father angrily.

I couldn't believe this derelict was the man who'd written us.

“Looks like he's had himself an adventure,” said the shopkeeper before going back inside.

“I didn't think he'd be so . . . old,” I murmured.

He walked right up. I could see why people on the street had been giving him a wide berth. The mud—or worse—caked to his clothing gave off a high stink.

“Professor Bolt?” the man said, looking genuinely pained.

Up close, he was not so old. Maybe early thirties. His face was tanned, but fairly unlined. His hair and beard were actually black, just coated in dust. He took his hat from his head and, after shaking hands with my father, clutched that hat to his chest and worried the frayed edges with his fingers.

“Professor Bolt, I can't tell you how sorry I am, sir, to be late for you. I was headed into town yesterday, and my horse took a wrong step into a badger hole. She went right over and me with her. I got straight up, but she'd broke her neck, poor girl.”

He wrestled a pack off his shoulder and set it down with a heavy thunk on the planks.

“So I took what I could and set off by foot.”

I had no idea what to make of him. Was he telling the truth? Or was he just spinning a lie?

“You must be Samuel.” He grabbed my hand and shook it heartily. “A pleasure to meet the both of you. I'm awfully glad you haven't given up on me!”

“Seems it's you who's given up on us,” I said. I couldn't help it. My head and thoughts were so overheated.

Astonished, he gazed from me to my father. “I'm not sure I—”

“It's come to our attention,” Father said, “that my colleague Professor Cartland is in town and seems to have his sights set
on the same hunting grounds you described to us.”

Ned Plaskett licked his lips like a parched nomad. His head lolled forward. I'd never seen a guiltier-looking fellow in my life.

“Professor Bolt, I should've told you earlier. But I didn't think anything would come of it—really I didn't. I can see how wrong I was now.”

He started pacing back and forth, limping slightly. He ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair.

I waited for him to continue and confirm the worst. I felt sick.

“When I didn't hear anything back from you in so long, I thought you weren't interested—and to be honest, I was worried I'd lost my fossil in the bargain.”

“Yes, well, my boy misplaced the crate,” Father said.

I was too crestfallen to even object to this lie.

“Well,” said Plaskett, “someone said I should write to Professor Cartland at Yale, so I did that.”

My pulse pounded in my throat. “And what did you tell him?”

“Only that I'd found some interesting Cretaceous fossils in the area of Fort Crowe and asked if he'd be interested in me digging them up. He wrote offering me employment, but that very same day I got your telegraph. So right away I wrote back to Professor Cartland saying I was sorry, but I was honor bound by my original offer to you.”

“And that's all you told him?” Father asked.

“That's everything.”

My heart lifted hopefully. “Nothing about the tooth?”

Plaskett shook his head. “I had no idea he'd come out this
way. Truly, I never thought he'd end up in Crowe the same time as you.”

“We're not so badly off,” I said. “We've still got our guide.”

Father stroked his mustache. “Cartland's got a small army.” He looked severely at Plaskett. “And your leg's injured, by the looks of it.”

Mr. Plaskett peered down at his legs, and then said, “Oh, my limp. No, I've had that since I was six. It didn't heal right after a fall. All the walking's bothered it some, I guess.”

Mr. Plaskett swatted a fly on his face, leaving a bloody smear. He left it. His pant legs bristled with burrs. His matted hair rose in a series of damp spikes. I was getting worried his fingers would claw right through his hat.

“Ah,” said my father. His eyes were darting here and there, and I could tell he was having a panic. I knew what he was thinking, because I was thinking it myself—unkind as it was. What kind of guide and helper would this beaten-down fellow be?

Father said, “Mr. Plaskett, forgive me, but I'm more than a little concerned about your general state of health.”

“Because of my
leg
?” At this he actually laughed. A very generous laugh that opened his face right up and made him seem much younger suddenly. “It's never slowed me down any.”

“Can you actually mount a horse, sir?”

A brown horse with a white diamond on its nose was tied up at a post. Plaskett put his hand reassuringly on the horse's muzzle, murmured something, and then with a quick flick of his hand, had the lead free of the hitching post. In a single fluid motion his
good foot was in the stirrup and his body swinging into the saddle. Before his backside hit the leather, he wheeled the horse round and went charging down the street full tilt, scattering a couple soldiers and veering around a wagon. He made that horse pirouette and come galloping straight back to us. Before the horse was even fully stopped, he was off its back and hitching it to the post.

“That was fantastic!” I said.

With a wink he said to me, “Your pa's turn now.”

“Very impressive, Mr. Plaskett,” my father said. “Our big problem now is supplies, which I'd assumed you would take care of. But every horse and bean in town is spoken for.”

“Tom Powers'll take care of us,” said Ned simply.

“He says he's cleaned out,” I said.

“Some things you can't see coming,” said Plaskett. “Like that badger hole that killed my Clairie. But I always plan ahead. Come on.”

He lead us back inside the shop, where Mr. Powers was wiping down his counter. “Tom, you got it all set out for us?”

Without a word Mr. Powers led us back through the store and out into a yard with a big shed. He unlocked the latch and left the door open so we could see. A wagon, already loaded up with what looked to me like enough provisions to last the summer.

“That's all ours?” my father asked.

“And the wagon.”

All I could do was smile in sheer relief, but Father asked, “Why didn't you tell us you had our provisions? After we said who we were!”

“Ned here told me to be cautious and not sell to any out-of-towners until he could vouch for them.”

I laughed, and my father nodded solemnly. “Very wise, Mr. Plaskett. I approve of your prudence.”

“It was a good thing he did, or the army would've cleaned me out entirely,” said Powers. “And I've got a good driver for you. My son Hitch.”

“He's excellent,” said Ned Plaskett.

“Well, let's meet this son of yours,” my father said.

Mr. Powers shouted out, and from the back of the house emerged a short, stocky lad. As he came closer with his choppy walk, I saw he wasn't a lad at all. His large eyes had a childlike innocence, quite out of tune with his silvering hair and lined skin. I'd seen a few people in Philadelphia with the same unusual eyes.

“Hitch,” his father said, “you remember Ned. And this is Professor Bolt.”

“Hello. How are you?” he said with practiced formality, shaking my father's hand.

“I'm well, Mr. Powers,” Father replied.

“I'm Hitch,” he said, as we shook hands.

“Samuel,” I said, wondering what his real age was.

“Yep,” he said, and then smiled and went back inside the house.

“Is he simple?” my father asked the storekeeper quietly.

“Yes,” said Mr. Powers. “But he's good with horses. Good hunter and cook, too. He's strong. He'll take care of you.”

My father looked at Ned for corroboration.

“It's true,” said Plaskett. “And he's got the best heart in this
town. Not too many people here I'd feel safe sharing camp with.”

“He doesn't talk much either,” added Mr. Powers. “He's soothing company. And he'll only cost you a dollar a day.”

“Done. Now what about horses?”

Ned Plaskett scratched some caked mud from his beard. “That's a bit trickier.”

“But you've got a team?”

“Isaiah Collins has the only team left, but he won't rent it out. He'll only sell.”

“How much?” I asked.

“Five hundred.”

“
Five
hundred,” Mr. Powers snorted. “Double its value!”

“Yep. Might be able to beat him down fifty, but no more than that.”

“And we can sell it at the end of the season,” I said.

“For a fraction!” my father muttered.

“We need horses,” I reminded him.

“Is it a good team?” he asked Plaskett, as if my father knew anything about horses.

“Not bad. The wheelers are mustangs, a bit worn out. The leaders are solid enough; there's a colt who's a bit rambunctious. Isaiah's also got three saddle ponies he'll loan us in the bargain. It's not so bad. All things considered.”

Father asked how much we owed for the provisions and wagon.

Ned Plaskett told him the price he'd arranged with Mr. Powers. My heart gave a thump.

“We're a hundred short,” I said.

“We have a temporary shortfall,” my father said. “I was robbed on the train.”

“Pickpockets?” said Ned Plaskett, all sympathy.

“Indeed,” my father said. “I'd like to meet with Mr. Collins and see if we can come to some arrangement.”

“No point. He's awful stubborn,” said Ned. “He's only holding them for me till tomorrow.”

“Do they play billiards here?” I asked Ned.

“They do, especially at the Pioneer.”

“I can win us a hundred.”

Astonished, Plaskett asked my father, “What are your feelings on gambling, Professor?”

“Everything in moderation, and in desperate circumstances, in excess. The boy's excellent. He got suspended from school for it.”

We took our lunch at the hotel and by then our room was ready and we all tidied ourselves up. Father adjusted my tie.

“We are witless city folk looking to be fleeced. We proceed with caution.”

I'd never been in a place as wild as the Pioneer. It wasn't just a gambling hall. There were upstairs girls, too, bright as cockatoos. And even at three in the afternoon it seemed to be doing a good business. A couple of billiards tables to one end and a small crowd around each. There were card tables and faro tables too. The place smelled a bit high, all the bodies in it, and some of them not too well washed. My stomach clenched and unclenched nervously.